


Seedlings

by DangerFloof



Series: A Two Parent, Two Bottles of Wine a Night Job [5]
Category: Bob's Burgers (Cartoon)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Consensual Underage Sex, Drug Dealing, Enemies, Explicit Language, F/M, Fanfiction, Frenemies, Friendship, Growing Up, High School, House Party, Illegal Activities, Mild Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, People Change People, Recreational Drug Use, Spring Break, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Teenage Drama, Teenage Rebellion, Teenagers, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2019-10-19 20:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17608871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerFloof/pseuds/DangerFloof
Summary: It’s spring break, and high school junior Louise Belcher is ready to party!





	1. ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut ahead!

            Louise folds an arm under her head. She takes a rip from the joint in her fingers, holds it, and slowly blows the smoke up at the fan spinning over the bed in Critter and Mudflap’s guest bedroom. She glances over at Zeke, cat-napping next to her. His brown lashes throw thick crescents on his tanned, freckled cheeks. She watches his hairy chest rise and fall as he breathes; a thickly muscled arm, adorned with a snake tattoo, pokes out of the covers, and his wide hand gently rests on her sheet-covered belly. 

 

            She can’t stop smiling. Is it the satisfaction of finally getting laid after an agonizing three-month drought? The calm she’s discovered in Tangerine Kush? Both? Louise taps off ash into the tray on the nightstand. She doesn’t want to ruin her bliss by analyzing it, but she suspects that her deep contentment is not just sexual satisfaction or drug-fueled, but also strongly wrapped up in the man who greeted her at their friend’s empty apartment with a kiss so thorough and passionate she felt his lips on her soul.

 

            Louise shakes her head.  She takes a deep hit and gently blows the smoke into Zeke’s sleeping face with a slight cough. His eyes flutter open, soft green in the mid-morning light filtering through the blinds. Zeke smiles lazily at her and yawns.  He sits up and motions for her to pass the joint, of which she’s already smoked almost half. She flicks off a bit more ash and hands it over.

 

            “Thanks, baby,” he says, and begins to puff away. Meanwhile, Louise leans over and pulls another Dutchie out of the pack. She startles at the feel of his hand caressing her back, closes her eyes in contentment. God, how’s she’s missed that!  Louise is convinced she was just as touch-starved as she was sex-starved.

 

            Half sitting, propped up by pillows, Zeke pulls her into his arms. Louise rests her head on his shoulder, leaning against an old, jagged knife scar that Zeke refuses to explain to her, and the two lie there and quietly smoke together.

 

            “When are they due back?”

 

            Zeke, having finished the joint, stubs it out the remains and uses his free hand to caress her. Friendly little touches, brushing back her hair, stroking her arm, her cheek, playing with her long fingers. “No earlier’n 3:30, but I wanna be up an' have the sheets clean an' dry by then.”

 

            “Oh my God, you’re so domestic.”

 

            “Just polite, babygirl. It’s real nice of ‘em to let us stay here today.”

 

            “Yeah, for the little time I get with you. Some spring break.” There’s no malice in her voice—smoking, she’s discovered, tends to elevate her overall mood and flatten her anger more than edibles, she doesn’t know why—but that doesn’t mean she’s happy with the situation.

 

            Zeke sighs deeply. “I know, darlin’. But I gotta see my momma.”

 

            “Yeah.”

 

            They’ve been over this before. Zeke’s mother is getting out of rehab for the billionth time, so Zeke is using his spring break to visit her. He’s taking a red-eye flight to Montgomery tonight, and will return next Saturday the same way. They’ll have a few more hours together then, before he drives back north to school, where he’ll be gone for another two months. Louise understands, but she doesn’t like it.

 

            She sits up and hands him the rest of the second joint. They’re small, and she and Zeke are experienced smokers, so they’re both pleasantly squanchy, but not even close to rocketing around Jupiter. “Why don’t I join you?”

 

            “Do _whut_?”

 

            Warming to the subject, Louise straddles him, her hands on his shoulders for balance. “Yeah, we could drive there. Wouldn’t you like to spend the extra time with me?”

 

            Zeke smokes as he contemplates the beautiful, lithe girl rocking her hips against him.  God _damn_ , he’d love a road trip with her!  Show her the South as he knows it, treat her to proper Southern cuisine—he knows she's had grits and greens before, but he doesn't trust Northerners, they always try to “elevate” simple, country foods that are perfect just as they are. Drive off onto back roads and make love to her behind trees overrun with kudzu.  Introduce her to his extended family; many of his cousins and half-siblings are quite presentable, and a few might even appreciate her for the diamond that she is.  Zeke finishes the joint and throws the roach into the ashtray next to him.

 

            “Mmm,” he purrs, his hands on her hips. They rock against each other gently, sensuously, her wet heat radiating through the sheet. She giggles softly, her eyes bloodshot. Louise poses for him, arms behind her head, putting on a damn fine show.  Her breasts, small but perfectly formed, point at his face, and he can’t resist tweaking her nipples.

 

             “Oh _yessss_."

 

            Zeke blinks; this is _Louise Belcher_ , typically so shy about being seen naked, grinding and posing for him.  "Someone's been learnin' to lapdance for her man?"

 

           Louise shakes her hair back.  Blushing, unable to meet his gaze, her hips move in little, seductive circles.  "No," she snorts.                   

 

            Louise, thinking of him, missing him, finding new ways to please him!  

 

            “Fuck, baby, you ain’t makin’ it easy fer me to say no.”

 

            “Then say yes.”  She leans down, her lips ghosting against his.  "You should always say yes to me.  I'll make it worth your while."

 

            Zeke groans and arches into her, making her gasp. He's so hard he's surprised he hasn't torn through the sheet and buried himself inside her by now. Their lips meet, the hunger built up over their separation not even close to satisfied.  Part of him desperately wants to just say fuck it and agree, but there are too many reasons that he can’t. “I don’t wanna—to spend the entire time pulling my cousins off yer hot ass.”

           

             Louise moans, her hips moving faster.  "You're a t-tease."

 

            “Like yer any better. Hop off honey,” he adds in a ragged voice, pushing her onto her side of the bed.

 

            She curls up on her side, grinning as she eyes the sheet tenting over his crotch. “You aren’t gonna waste that, are you?”

 

            Zeke brings himself under control, barely.  “Don’t worry sweetheart, I got plenty for ya. But I—I wanna talk seriously to ya first.”

 

            Louise frowns. “Okay?”

 

            Zeke licks his lips. “There’s…stuff ya don’t know, Louise, and I want ya to know, and it’s why ya can’t come with me.”

 

           One dark eyebrow arches. “Oh yeah?”

 

            “Calm down, I ain't gotta secret wife or kid or nuttin'.”

 

            He laughs softly at her transparency. Flushing, Louise slaps his arm.

 

            “I know that, dumbass. You just sound awfully serious.”

 

            Zeke catches her wrist and pins it against the bed. He hovers over her, taking in her loveliness, the new nostril piercing—a present to herself, for finishing her ACTs—twinkling in the light. It seems to him that he comes home to a new Louise each break: fundamentally the same, but different in key, subtle ways, as she matures. It’s possible now to see her face transforming into that of an adult, her breasts and hips are slightly fuller, and surely she’s hit her adult height by now. A part of him feels a bit wistful, saying goodbye to the beautiful teen who first enchanted him, but he’s confident he’ll love the gorgeous adult Louise who takes her place even more.

 

            “Well?”

 

            He blinks rapidly, realizing that he zoned out, become lost in the depths of her eyes, the even creaminess of her olive skin.

 

            “Okay, it’s like this, darlin’. My momma ain’t been in rehab this time.”

 

            “Oh?”

 

            Zeke runs his fingers over her collarbones. “Yeah. Nobody in town knows this, ‘cept Mr. Fischoeder, Mudflap, an’ Critter. I’m countin’ on ya ta keep yer mouth shut, okay?

 

            “Yeah, of course.”

 

            “She ain’t been in rehab, she’s been in jail. Fer prostitution.”

 

            “For--?” The coin drops. “ _Oh_.”

 

            “Yeah. Tryin' to git drugs, of course.”

 

            Louise doesn’t know what to say. His mother is a prostitute? “That’s—that’s heavy shit.”

 

            “I know,” he says, stroking her cheek, fearing that he’s dirtying Louise’s fineness by discussing such things with her. “I don’t wanna expose ya to her ‘less I’m sure she ain’t doin’ that anymore.”

 

            “I mean, she really has been in rehab, lots of times,” he adds, not mentioning, but always remembering, that everyone in the family says the problems started after she had him. “Momma’s gotta taste fer meth, especially.  That’s why I’m glad Mr. Fischoeder ain’t callin’ on us to deal the heavy shit.”

 

            “I’ve wondered about that,” Louise says softly, running her hands over his broad shoulders.

 

            “It’s easier to sneak around with weed an’ things like that. You’ll probably git a bit of acid and shrooms next year.  He leaves the heavy stuff to the One-Eyed Snakes, and they sell that shit out of town. See, friendly drugs slip under the radar; the second ya bring in the hard stuff, ya get police. Lots more violent crime, too. Mr. Fischoeder wants to make a reasonably clean, easy dollar.”

 

            Louise runs her thumb over his forehead, trying to smooth away the frown lines. “That makes sense.”

 

            Zeke knows he ought to shut up—there’s so many better, pleasanter things he could do with Louise in this bed, but now that he’s started, he can’t stop. “I’ve offered to move her up here lotsa times. I even sent her money. Didn’t do no good. Not sure bringing her up here would help anyway.”

 

            “I mean,” he adds, “I’d stop with the weed an’ shit. But I know she’d find drugs anyhow, she’s that type.”

 

            “Where there’s a will…” Louise says humorlessly.

 

            “Yeah. Ya can't save someone who don't wanna be saved.  D'ya see now why I always admire yer family? They’re nice, clean folks.” The words _unlike me and mine_ float, unspoken, between them.

 

            “Hey,” Louise says quietly, cupping his cheek in her palm, making him look at her. “That has nothing to do with who _you_ are. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise—especially yourself.”

 

            “Ya think so, baby? ‘Cause sometimes I wonder…I mean, yer so young an’ sweet, an’ I—I don’t wanna ruin ya.”

 

            “You’re probably the first person in the world to call me _sweet_ ,” Louise snorts. “Zeke, you are who you choose to be, you know that, right?”

 

            “Yeah. I guess. You don’t regret...I just—this don’t…change…anythin'? Between us?”

 

            “Hell no!” She reaches out and takes his face in her hands.  Her dark eyes burn into his, desperate to understand and to be understood. “Not at all. I—you—I-I...I want to be with you. I’ll never regret being with you. Never!”

 

            Zeke swoops down and kisses her passionately. He looses himself in her sugary-vanilla scented beauty as tells her with his body, over and over, how much he loves her, needs her, belongs to her, hoping her responding cries mean she feels the same. And when he leaves her later that afternoon, satiated and exhausted, he prays to whatever god there is in heaven that Louise is right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've known about Zeke's mother for a while now. I'm so glad to finally get to share it.
> 
> My headcannon Zeke is a bit romantic and dramatic, and desperately attempting to rewrite history. In my observation--and, ahem, experience--that's a common cocktail of traits among people from dysfunctional families.


	2. TWO

             Linda leans on the restaurant counter, phone cradled between her shoulder and cheek as she pours coffee for Mort. “Now, you tell Michael we all said hello. Bye, Genie-Beanie! See you on Saturday. Bye, Mommy loves you! Mwa! Mwa-mwa-mwa-mwa-mwa-mwa—“

 

            She puts down the phone mid-air kiss. “We must’ve been disconnected. Bob! Bobby!”

 

            Her husband pokes his head through the window. “Yeah, Lin?”

 

            “He arrived, safe and sound.”

 

            “I know, Linda. You tracked his flight online, remember? He landed in Dallas fifteen minutes ago.”

 

            “Yeah, but I just talked to him.”

 

            Bob shares a conspiratorial glance with Louise, who is at the dishwasher, cleaning up the mess she made from the morning prep work. It's hard to say who was more worried about Gene’s first plane ride, Gene or his mother.

 

            “Lucky bastard,” Louise mutters.

 

            “What, Louise?”

 

            Louise begins hanging knives on the magnetic strip. “ _He_ gets to go out of town on spring break. _I_ get to stay here doing nothing but working and staring at the school website waiting for my ACT scores to land.”

 

            Bob sighs. He suspected this was coming. “Louise, he’s an adult, and he’s using his own money to visit his…boyfriend?”

 

            Bob isn’t sure exactly what the two men are. When asked, Gene just blushed and said they “have a thing,” whatever that means.

 

            “Yeah, yeah…hooray for Gene.”

 

            “You could have always visited Tina—“

           

            “Hey Dad, do you know why bees hum?”

 

            “No, Louise. Why do bees hum?”

 

            “Because they don’t know the words!”

 

            He groans in appreciation, and, getting the hint, drops the subject. Bob knows his and Linda’s parenting style could be most politely described as “free-range,” and perhaps, in retrospect, it wasn’t always the best choice, given the eccentricities of their children. Still, they’re growing into independent, competent adults, and he’s proud of them all. He’s especially pleased that his children are friends as well as siblings, so knowing that his two daughters, so different in character but once so close, have gone months without speaking, hurts. Louise, of course, is a vault on the subject, and not even Linda can cajole Tina into discussing it; were it any other two young women, he would think it has something to do with a guy.

 

            The restaurant door chimes trill. Two voices, male, young, strikingly similar but still different, call out greetings.

 

            “Hi, Mrs. Belcher!”

 

            “Good morning, Mrs. Belcher!”

 

            Louise swings open the kitchen door. “ _There’s_ my favorite muffinheads!”

 

            Andy giggles into his hand.

 

            “You’re sweet too, Louise,” Ollie smiles.

 

            “Why do people keep telling me I’m _sweet_? Sick! Do I have to hold up a bank or something to get some respect around here?” She’s not as offended as she sounds, but she is certainly confused; this is the second time in as many days that someone has called her sweet.

 

            Bob blinks at his daughter, equally befuddled. “Who called you sweet?”

 

            Louise hangs her apron on my the hook and picks up her backpack. “Come on Dad, has senility kicked in already? Ollie just did.”

 

            Bob still can’t tell the twins apart, but he’ll take Louise’s word that the spikey-haired blond is Ollie. “I meant who else-else--?”

 

            His daughter, however, has already left the kitchen. “I finished the tomatoes, onions, and the lettuce is drying!”

 

            She fist-bumps Mort, the secret greeting her Captain likes to use when they’re around civilians. Louise thinks he also believes it makes him look young and hip, like his toupee and the leather pants he occasionally pulls out of storage.

 

            “Now, make sure you’re back for dinner, honey,” Linda calls out to her daughter’s back.

 

            “ _Suuuuure_ , Mom! Yummy-yum-yum!”

 

             “I mean it, Miss Missy.  I want a nice Sunday dinner with my baby.”

 

            Louise rolls her eyes.  “My God, get one of those real baby dolls or something already.” 

 

            Sputtering, Linda watches the threesome leave the restaurant. She turns to her husband. “She’s not going to be back for dinner, is she?”

 

            “No, Lin, she’s not.”

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            They stop at the twin’s vehicle, the old minivan the Belchers were cheated out of on _Family Fracas_. Mr. Pesto gave it to his sons for their sixteenth birthday, and he couldn’t have bestowed it on more grateful recipients. Louise eyes the big dent in the passenger door and sniffs; _The way they act, you’d think their dad gave them the sports car he bought for himself to replace the minivan._

 

            Ollie takes the twin’s Turn Penny out of his pocket and balances it on his finger. “Heads!”

 

            “Tails!”

 

            He flips the coin and slaps it onto the back of his hand. “Tails.”

 

            Andy grabs the keys and opens the driver door. “You can drive us back.”

 

            Louise climbs in the back, sitting cross-legged on the seat. “Ugh, I have no legroom back here.”

 

            Andy sighs deeply. “I’m sorry.”

 

            Ollie pats his brother’s hand. “It’s not your fault.”

 

            Louise rolls her eyes. She forgot that height is a sore spot with Andy. He and Ollie claim to be 6’1” even, but in reality Andy is a half-inch taller than his brother. He hasn’t forgiven himself for the extra growth.

 

            “ _Anyway_ ,” Louise says, rooting around in her backpack, “I brought some of those sour gummy worms you two like. They’re going to taste weird with the pizza, but whatever.”

 

            Louise smiles at the two pizza boxes next to her. The Pesto twins have about five brain cells between them, and four of them are used to make the best damn pizza she’s ever eaten, even better than the Chicago deep-dish Tina bought when Louise visited her last spring break. Ollie and Andy will need their staff to manage literally every other aspect of the business once Mr. Pesto signs it over to them, but they’re really good chefs. Louise inhales deeply; garlic and onions, cheese and chicken, and her stomach rumbles in anticipation.  Delicious, and a good distraction from her sour thoughts about her concern-troll of a sister.

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Jessica, the daughter of osteopaths, lives in the rich section of town. They pass Dr. Yap washing his new BMW in his driveway. Louise knows that Logan “Dingleberry” Bush’s parent’s home is a couple blocks north.

 

            Andy pulls up to the curb, narrowly missing the mailbox, and everyone climbs out and walks up to the door, food in hand. Jessica answers the doorbell with a smile. “About time, loosers.”

 

            Jessica lives in a house the size of the entire building the Belchers rent for their home and business, but Louise has been there too often to be awed by the size of the place.

 

            “We wanted to give you extra time to rinse the taste of dick out of your mouth,” Louise shrugs.

 

            Jess bursts into slightly hysterical laughter, Andy and Ollie giggle nervously, but Rudy, sitting at the coffee table surrounded by books, turns a splotchy red. “Dang, Louise!”

 

            Louise gives him an affectionate noogie on her way to the dining room table, where she opens up her backpack. First she pulls out the bag of Doritos, a delicious cover for the real treats underneath. She piles sour gummies, some leftover chocolate Ganja Clauses, a variety of cannabis nibbles, all neatly labeled, next to the pizzas.

 

            “What were you nerds doing, anyway?” Louise asks Jessica as they choose their slices.

 

            “ _Shul_ work!” Rudy answers for her, stacking Hebrew workbooks tidily to the side of the table.

 

            Jessica makes to grab an edible, thinks better of it, and picks up a napkin. “Yeah, my parents are out of town, so…”

 

            Louise shakes her head; who else but Jessica and Rudy would have a whole weekend alone together and use it to _study_? But then, given her mother’s total lack of enthusiasm for Jess’s decision to become a practicing Jew, it sort of makes sense. “Only _you_ would choose a religion that requires homework.”

 

            “I didn’t choose the Jew life, the Jew life chose me.”

 

            Louise rolls her eyes. _Well, it’s in character_ , she thinks as she settles Onto one of the big couches in the living room. Those two dorks genuinely like school and are inherently good at it, unlike Louise, who finds the focus and discipline difficult. Still, her grades are almost as good as theirs, partly because she enjoys subverting expectations—nobody expects the bad girl to have good grades—and partly because those good grades mean she’s cut a lot of slack, behavior-wise, from adults. Louise doesn’t quite get the connection between the two, but it makes her life a hell of a lot easier, so she doesn’t question it.

 

            Ollie, then Andy, sit down next to her, while Rudy and Jessica take over the love seat. Ollie leans in close, almost presses his nose against the crook of her neck, and sniffs hard. “You smell like cookies,” he says approvingly.

 

            “Vanilla almond cookies,” Andy adds, unwrapping a Ganja Claus.

 

            “Oh my God, personal space, Ollie.” Louise pushes him away and rubs her neck, frowning. She can still feel his breath on her neck, the heat from his body, and it's evoked… _sensations_ …purely automatic, impersonal, physical sensations. 

 

            Louise looks over at Jess curled up happily in the crook of Rudy's arm, and envy claws at her heart.  Not that she wants Rudy--been there, done that--but envy that Jess's guy is _there_ , and they can show PDAs without the morality police going into full pearl-clutching mode.  After all, Louise is nearly seventeen, perfectly legal, and just a year away from her majority.  Effectively, she's practically been an adult for a long time now; her grades are great, she works for the restaurant in some capacity every day, performs little side hustles, and generally handles her business like a boss.  Why _shouldn't_ it be her body, her rules?  Why _can't_ she use Zeke as a body pillow if she'd like?  Why do people complement her intelligence, but fault her for exercising it?  Why do people praise her sense of responsibility, then turn around and undercut her decisions at every turn?

 

             She shifts while Jessica fiddles with the remote, irritation and a thread of longing that's not just sexual making it difficult for Louise to get comfortable.  

 

            Ollie holds her plate while she readjusts, squashing herself into the corner of the couch.  "Do you have enough room?"

      

            "I can move," Andy tacks on.

 

           "Nah, I'm good."  Louise takes her plate, smiles her thanks at Ollie.  He grins back, his eyes light and sparkling, and, Louise notices for the first time, a surprisingly nice shade of blue-grey.

 

             Jessica eventually pulls up Netflix. The title card for “Frontier” pops up, Jason Momoa’s brooding face filling the screen.

 

            “Nobody’s watched season three yet, right?”

 

            “I read a review,” Andy says.

 

            Louise and Rudy exchange a look: _Andy can read?_

 

            “Well, whatever. No spoilers!”

 

            Jessica takes a gulp of soda and hits play.

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Three episodes later, a sober-enough Ollie drives Andy and Louise back home. Jessica’s parents, forever known to Louise as Doctors Mom and Dad, nicknames she coined in grade school, are due home from a conference later that evening. Of course they wouldn’t want to discover that their daughter had guests while they were gone. Louise is extra careful to take the weed wrappers with her.  Her back is slightly stiff from spending so much time sitting, but her feet feel marvelous, loose and limber from the synchronized massage they received.

 

_Jess paused halfway through episode two for a bathroom break, and the twins used the opportunity to switch positions.  By the time Jess started the show up, Louise was curled up in the corner of the couch again, one long leg stretched out on Ollie's lap.  Andy sat on the floor and leaned his temple against the inner knee of her other leg. She dropped a hand to his head and began to absently play with his hair.  He hummed, arching into her hand like a cat.  Unlike Ollie, who kept his hair short and spiky, Andy preferred a shaggier look.  She admired the soft texture, so different from her own coarser, curlier hair.  Ollie ran his hand down her shin and grasped her sock covered foot, giving it a gentle squeeze._

 

_"Oh!"  Things popped, muscles she didn't even realize were sore sang with pleasure._

 

_Everyone stared at her._

 

_Louise, her face hot with the realization that her response sounded orgasmic, tried to shrug it off.  "My feet hurt more than I thought."_

 

_"Mmm," Jess said, and hit play._

 

_Andy picked her other foot up and cradled it in his lap.  Louise had just a brief moment to register two things: relief that she was good about regular pedicures, and the sudden awareness that her legs were rather splayed, when the twins simultaneously ran the pads of their strong thumbs along her aching arches.  Louise bit her lip, shivering with pleasure.  Andy craned his head to look up at her, his brows raised, clearly wanting to be assured he was a good boy, and had done the right thing.  She smiled at him and gave his hair a little tug of approval.  Her eyes flickered over to Ollie's profile.  He watched the television as if unaware of her gaze, but then a tiny smile quivered at the corner of his mouth as he began to firmly rub her arch with both thumbs.  A soft sound, not unlike a growling purr, rumbled in the back of her throat, and Louise was shocked by the flood of warmth in her pelvis, the prickle of her nipples.  
_

 

            “Let’s go to Wonder Warf,” Louise suggests as soon as Ollie, red with effort, finally manages to parallel park the van.

 

            He looks back at her in the mirror, his brows still furrowed. “Sorry, we can’t, Louise, we have to close tonight.”

 

            “Sorry, Louise,” Andy adds.

 

            “Oh, come on, it’s spring break! Live a little.”

 

            Ollie turns so he’s mostly facing her, his regret obvious. “We’ll make it up to you.”

 

            “Whatever. Smell ya later!”  Maybe it's for the best, considering the...energy...between her and the twins.  For the first time, she's forced to think of the Pesto twins not as boys, Andy-and-Ollie, the old childhood friends she's known forever, but as _guys._ When did they grow those muscles?  How did she miss their bright smiles and sparkling eyes?  Can she drink away the memory of how her body responded to their touches, or is it a catch-22: would the amount of alcohol required to make her forget actually kill her?

 

            She glances over at her parent's place.  The restaurant is closed, the downstairs is dark, but the lights are on upstairs. Louise doesn’t see anyone by the windows, and she hitches her backpack higher on her shoulder and hurries down the street before anyone can spot her. There’s no way she’s going home for dinner after the fuss her mother made about it. Much as she hates spending her own money on food, Louise decides it’s the lesser of the evils. Maybe she can trade some edibles for tacos?

 

            Wonder Warf is busier than it’s been in months, filled with students and families enjoying the balmy early March weather. She casually makes her way through the crowds, stopping occasionally to greet old friends and classmates. She’s talking to Darryl, in town on break from Berkley—tactfully ignoring the terrible teen mustache she always knew he would eventually grow—when Harley bounces up behind her.

 

            “Hi, Louise!”

 

            “Hi, Harley.”

 

            Darryl, never comfortable around women, and particularly nervous around ebullient chatterboxes like Harley, backs away slowly, promising Louise he’ll look her up on Facebook.

 

            “Oh my God, Louise, have you seen Thor over by the High Striker?”

 

            Louise blinks. “Thor? Is Loki hanging out by the Scramble Pan?”

 

            Harley giggles.  As usual, Louise’s sarcasm, practically a physical thing, whizzes over her head. “No, silly! There’s this totally hot guy just _killing_ it with that hammer! You should see those muscles!”

 

            “You know those things are rigged, right?”

 

            “His muscles?”

 

            Louise pinches the bridge of her nose. “No, the—yeah, Harley, his muscles.”

 

            “I don’t think that’s how—“

 

            “I’m going to get tacos, so if you’ll just—“

 

            Harley’s eyes light up. “Speaking of eating…”

 

            They part a few minutes later, Louise’s bag lighter a few gummy worms and a couple of joints she always has on hand. Feeling quite flush—her cut puts her up fifteen bucks now—Louise, in a far better mood, decides to go see this Nordic god Harley nattered on and on (and on and on and on) about. _A little eyecandy never hurt anyon_ e, she figures, and she’ll have to pass by the High Striker to get tacos anyway.

 

            The High Striker dings, the light flashes, and the little puck drops down to its resting place. Thor is mostly hidden by a cheering crowd, but Louise can see the top of his head, his golden hair, tied back in a messy man-bun, glowing in the overhead lights. She’s seen the top of that head around town every now and then, usually at a distance.

 

            “Oh, fuck me,” Louise mutters, alarm bells going off, too late, in her head. She begins to back away, but the blond man turns to accept the crowd’s adulation. As if sensing her presence, his dark blue eyes immediately lock onto her glowering brown ones, and his proud smile twists into the smirk she knows so well.

 

            “Here to admire the show, Belcher?” Logan flexes, putting on what even Louise has to admit is an impressive display in his tight, sky-blue t-shirt.

 

            Eyes turn to look at the tall, slim girl shouldering her way through the crowd. “Yeah, Bush, I didn’t know they let little girls play that game!”

 

            She notices for the first time that he's stretched his ear piercings--not too huge, but big enough she could put her thumbs through the tunnels and use them as handles to head-butt him, crushing his nose with her forehead, just like Ice Pick taught her.  Logan holds out the handle of the mallet to her. “I don’t know if they let little girls play or not. Care to find out?”

 

            The High Striker is one of the few games at the Warf she hasn’t played, but there’s no way in hell Louise Belcher is going to back down from the challenge, especially with a growing number of people stopping to watch.

 

            Louise passes a ticket over to Mickey, and hands him her backpack and hoodie for safekeeping. “Give ‘em hell, Baby B,” he grins.

 

            A natural entertainer, her skills honed thanks to her work as a jell-o wrestler, Louise turns to the crowd and flexes her own impressive arms. “Who’s ready to witness some _real_ bell-ringing?”

 

            She’s answered with cheers and wolf-whistles.

 

            Mickey, as much a showman as she is, calls out on the megaphone, “Step up and watch our resident strongwoman take on the amazing Thor!”

 

            Logan hands her the mallet with a slight bow. “M’lady.”

 

            She rolls her eyes, her arm sagging slightly under the weight of the mallet.

 

            He leans down, close enough for Louise to catch a whiff of cologne that smells like money, quite unlike Zeke’s, which, though pleasant, is not as complex or expensive. “Heavier than you thought, huh?”

 

            “I’ll let my muscles do the talking, Dingleberry.” She shoos him back, makes a show of setting herself up for her first hit. Louise hefts the mallet and brings it down on the red lever with an _oof_.

 

            The puck shoots up to level 12, five levels shy of the bell, and falls back into place.

 

            “Good try, two more to go!” Mickey calls out over the mix of applause and groans from the crowd.

 

            Louise turns to her fans—they’re all watching her, so, boo or applaud, they’re all fans, in her book—and flashes her most winsome smile. “That was just a practice swing.”

 

            She sets up again, frowning, more determined than ever to match Logan. Another swing, and the puck makes it just shy of level 13.

 

            “One more try. Make it count, Louise!”

 

            “Lou-ise! Lou-ise! Lou-ise!”

 

            She stares, equally astonished and horrified to discover that it’s _Logan_ , of all people, chanting her name. He motions to the crowd, encouraging them to join him in cheering for her. Louise grips the mallet and, with heroic effort, manages to not smash him in the testicles with it.

 

            “You can’t psych me out, Dingleberry.”

 

            His grin is wide, and, were it on anyone else’s face, she’d call it charming. “Let your muscles do the talking, Belcher.”

 

            She turns to the game and lifts the mallet high. Focusing her rage, imagining the target is Logan’s dumb face that still looks like a butt, she brings it down with a mighty cry. The puck flies high, tops off between levels 13 and 14, and falls with a disappointed “Awww!” from the crowd.

 

            “Oh, too bad, Louise, but excellent work! Let’s hear it for Wonder Warf’s newest strongwoman, Louise Belcher!”

 

            Louise accepts the crowd’s cheers with as much good grace as she can muster. It’s embarrassing to loose in front of a crowd—especially at a game of strength, given her pride in her own athleticism—but that’s nothing compared to the humiliation of loosing to Logan Barry Bush. Her face all but glowing with shame, she steps over to Mickey to retrieve her belongings.

 

            “Great job, Baby B,” he gushes, oblivious to her mood. He hands her a voucher for free tacos. Louise grunts and turns to leave, no longer hungry and ready to go home.

 

            Logan swings a companionable arm over her shoulder. “So, curly fries or cotton candy, Belcher?”

 

            “What the—!“ Louise twists out of his hold and stares at him in open-mouthed astonishment, for once shocked beyond words.

 

            “Come on, Louise, we were having fun. Don’t be a little brat over some stupid game.”

 

            “We—what—we weren’t having _fun_! We aren’t friendly rivals, you idiot! You’re my arch-nemesis!”

 

            Logan’s affable smile slips, revealing the glower that Louise remembers so well from her childhood. Suddenly she feels a bit better; she knows this Logan.

 

            “You’re still mad about all that kid shit?” He rolls his eyes. Nobody is near them, but he lowers his voice and leans in close. “Riding a man’s dick doesn’t make you an adult, Louise.”

 

            The hand gripping her backback strap grows white around the knuckles. “I don’t know what you’re—“

 

            “Where is he, anyway?"  Logan sniggers. "Did Middle Earth call and demand it’s dwarf back?”

 

            Her eyes are narrowed to slits. “Stop. Now.”

 

            “Fortunately for you, you’re too old for me to report it, so I’ll just say this; you should think really fucking hard about why a grown man is sniffing after some high school girl. It’s shitty, it’s abusive, and you’re going to be the one who pays for it.”

 

            Louise draws herself up to her full, considerable height, which still, irritatingly enough, leaves her a half-foot shorter than Logan. “Gee, thanks for the advice, Dingleberry. I’ll remember to use it the next time I need to wipe my ass.”

 

            Louise walks away with her head held high, but her knees wobble with unspent adrenaline and worry. _How the fuck did Logan figure it out?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more about Louise and Tina's fight coming up, I promise.


	3. THREE

            “And post. See Dad, it’s up in plenty of time, you old worry-wart.”

 

            Bob grunts. It’s two hours before opening, and he and Louise are in the kitchen, Bob on prep, Louise at the family’s new-to-them laptop, finally posting a picture of today’s special, The Jive Turkey Bacon Burger, all over their social media. Typically, she makes and photographs the daily special the evening before, then posts the following morning.  She got in too late last night to follow her usual routine, so she had to hurriedly whip up and photograph the burger of the day to upload on time.

 

            “So,” Bob says, his tone carefully neutral. “We missed you at dinner last night.”

 

            Louise looks up at her father. He’s at the prep sink washing tomatoes, gently removing the stickers and rubbing down each one under a stream of water. He turns off the faucet and glances over at her.

 

            She sighs. “Dad, come on, I made it pretty clear I wasn’t going to be back on time.”

 

            “I know. I wish you had, though. We miss spending time with you.”

 

            “We’re spending time together now, aren’t we?” Louise gestures around the kitchen. “How many times have you told me that this fun? We’re having fun right now, we have fun every day as a family.”

 

            “That’s not what I mean, Louise, and you know it.”

 

            “Dad!  It’s spring break, I just finished my ACTs, and I won’t know the results until Wednesday. Give it a rest.”

 

            Bob shakes his head. “We know you’ve been stressed, so we haven’t said anything, not even about...” He taps the side of his nose, giving her new piercing a significant look. “And you’re a good kid. Basically. It’s just…you’re growing up so fast, sometimes I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”

 

            “What do you want to know?”  She spreads her hands wide.  "I'm an open book."

 

            He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Never mind.”

 

            Bob turns back to the sink and continues to wash the tomatoes. His back, with it’s slightly slumped shoulders, reproaches her.

 

            Louise checks the school website for her ACT scores, and sighs when she sees that they haven’t been posted early, like she’d hoped. She plays with the curser on the laptop. “Look. I’m sorry I’ve been distant, okay? I haven’t meant to be, I’ve just been super busy.”

 

            Her father turns off the water. He turns to look at her, a dripping tomato in his hands. “I know, Louise, and I get it; you’re driven, and I like that. You’re going places. Just don’t forget your family on the way there, alright?”

 

            “Why don’t we do a movie or something Thursday night?” Louise suggests. “Or we could just stay in and watch some _Hawk and Chick_. We haven’t done that for ages.”

 

            Bob smiles. “Great. That’d be great.”

 

            “In fact,” Louise adds, following a brainwave, “Why don’t we make every Thursday night movie night?”

 

            “I’d like that. But it can’t always be _Hawk and Chick_. Your mother will want to join us sometimes.”

 

            “Fine, whatever.”

 

            Father and daughter share a smile, and Louise mentally pats herself on the back for neatly patching up the immediate problem and preventing a far larger one. Spending a little extra time with her parents isn’t the worst idea in the world, even if it means dealing with her much-loved but highly irritating mother. It’s also a good way to keep them from becoming too curious, looking too carefully, asking too many questions, and involving themselves in things they won’t understand and will only upset them. This will be a good opportunity to spoon-feed them enough information to keep them happy.

 

            Louise sighs and pulls her phone out of her pocket. Good; Jessica messaged her that she’s on her way over.  As much as Louise enjoys plotting and sneaking, there’s a part of her that would love to be as free and open with her parents as Jessica is with her’s. But of course, Jessica’s parents adore Rudy, and the family’s big conflict is her mother’s coolness regarding Jessica’s decision to embrace a Jewish life. Jess isn’t hiding mob connections, drug dealing and regular use, an adult lover, or why she isn’t talking to her sister.

 

            “Hey Dad, Jess is coming in ten. Mind if I push off?”

 

            “Sure, Louise, just put away the laptop first.”

 

            Louise does as she’s told, trying to ignore the twist of guilt produced by her father’s relieved smile. She kisses his cheek on the way out the door.

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            “So, where are we going?”

 

            Jessica’s driving her mother’s old Kia, gifted to her the day she received her license. Louise, still at the mercy of her parent’s death-grip on the family’s communal beater, tries not to be too jealous.

 

            “I thought we’d try the outlet mall past Highway Six.”

 

            “The mall? Really? Uh, okay.” Louise knew she shouldn’t have left the plans up to Jessica. “Wait! That’s like, almost forty-five minutes away! Why don’t we go shopping on Kingshead or something?”

 

            “Nah, I’d rather…okay, it’s not really…shopping…exactly. I mean, I need to go shopping, but not for…” Jessica’s voice cracks.

 

            “Hey, you okay? Pull over, Jess.”

 

            She does, slamming the breaks and showering the road with a fine spray of gravel. Jessica calmly puts the car in park, cuts the engine, and bursts into tears.

 

            At first, Louise can do nothing but blink at her. They’ve been friends for years, seen each other through more weirdness and drama than Louise can name, but never once has she seen Jessica cry, not even when she got her first period at school and bled through her jeans in front of everyone.

 

            Louise places a hand on her friend’s shoulder. Jessica is slumped over the wheel, sobbing into her crossed arms. At the touch of Louise’s hand Jessica sits up enough to lean on Louise, where she cries herself out.

 

            Louise has no idea what to do; she’s the problem-solver, Tina’s the touchy-feely one. Scowling at the thought of her sister, Louise hugs Jessica close, saying nothing, making no empty promises, just offering her quiet presence, her unspoken support, for comfort.

 

            Eventually, Jessica sits up and fumbles in the center counsel. She pulls out a wad of fast-food napkins and blows her nose. She dries her eyes and wipes away the tears and mascara streaked down to her chin, unable to look at Louise the entire time.

 

            “So,” Louise says, once Jessica has pulled herself together, “Wanna tell me what that was all about?”

 

            Jess laughs weakly, her bloodshot eyes swollen to tired-looking slits; nobody ugly-cries like Jessica. “I’m…I’m late, Louise.”

 

            “Late?”

 

            “ _Late_.”

 

            _Oh._

 

           “Oh shit.”

 

            “Yeah.”

 

            Instinctively, Louise’s eyes travel to Jessica’s belly. It’s too early to see anything, she’s sure, but she can’t help it. “How late?”

 

            “Almost two weeks. And I’m like clockwork!”

 

            “Are you—are you sure it isn’t stress? I mean, we just finished the ACT, and you have the SATs to worry about,” Louise suggests, resisting the urge to pick at the stress pimple on her chin that blossomed overnight. “So…you want me to go with you to buy a pregnancy test?”

 

            “Two. There’s a Walmart across from the outlet—oh crap!”

 

            “What?”

 

            “ _Crap_!”

 

            Jessica turns to her with a trembling lip. “Will they sell to teens? Won’t they want to see IDs or something? I—I can’t let anyone know I need—and what about you? What if someone sees you buying and start…asking…q-q-questions…?”

 

            That’s a real problem. Not that Louise would care about the rumor for her own sake, but if people speculate that she’s pregnant, they’ll naturally wonder who the father is, and she can’t afford for anyone to start down that road with her. Sure, what she and Zeke are doing is _technically_ legal, but discovery would bring one hell of a shitstorm on both their heads. Wait—the father!

 

            “Does Rudy know?”

 

            Jessica laughs, a little hiccup of bleak humor. “Of course not! He’s so stressed about the tests, and you know he can’t keep a secret!”

 

            “True, true.” Granted, Rudy has improved in that regard, but Louise wouldn’t trust him with something this big. She plays with one of the gold hoop rings that have scarcely left her ears since Zeke gave them to her for Christmas.  As much as Louise hates to admit it, this is out of her league; though they’re adults in everything but name, right now they need an adultier adult’s help. Linda is a non-starter. Jackie’s probably sleeping off last night’s shift at one of Mr. Fischoeder’s strip clubs. Jane, up to her eyebrows with finishing her last semester at the community college, her internship as a certified nursing assistant, and planning her summer wedding, has been all but out of pocket for the better part of a month. Louise knows exactly who to call. “Okay, um, get yourself together, and drive us back to town—“

 

            “But—“

 

            “Jess, I’m gonna make a call. It’ll be fine.”

 

            “You can’t tell _anyone_ , Louise!”

 

            “Don’t worry, Jess, I’m just going to call a friend. She’ll take care of it.”

 

            “Nobody, Louise! I mean it!”

 

            Louise sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “We can’t do this by ourselves. But Mudflap will help us.”

 

            “Mudflap? The biker woman your family is friends with?”

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            A while later, Jessica, following Louise’s directions, pulls up in front of Mudflap and Critter’s place. It took longer than Louise expected, because after she hung up with Mudflap—who agreed to buy the tests, no questions asked—Jessica went on another crying jag, this time with relief.

 

            “Come on in, girls.” Mudflap ushers them in, first giving Louise a hug and a very curious glance. But then she turns to Jessica, wan and tear-stained, and wraps her in her arms.

 

            “It’s gonna be fine, honey,” she says softly, and Jessica begins to weep again.

 

            Relieved of her counseling role, Louise turns to the practical. Leaving them on the sofa in the front room, she enters the kitchen and pours out three mismatched plastic tumblers of ice water. Two pregnancy tests sit in a sunbeam on the counter, like quest items in a video game; all they’re missing is mysterious sparkles. She smiles thinly.

 

            “Hey Louise, bring us them tests, will ya?”

 

            Mudflap speaks quietly, holding Jessica’s hand. “Now don’t you worry, the men are all out, so it’s just us gals.”

 

            “Don’t worry?!?”

 

            Mudflap glances up as Louise sets the tests in front of her. She reaches over to the coffee table and picks up a pad of paper and pen. Flipping over to a fresh sheet, she hands it and the pen to Jessica.

 

            “Now, you’re gonna draw yourself one of them worry charts.”

 

            “What’s a worry chart?”

 

            “You know, a…aw, I forget what they’re called. You write a question, and then two branches, one fer yes, one fer no. You can add to it later, when you know the answer, but all you gotta worry about now is if yer knocked up, yes or no.”

 

            “Oh, a flow chart!”

 

            “Yeah. Flow chart.”

 

            Louise struggles to keep a straight face as she watches her friend draw a flow chart for her possible pregnancy. To her surprise, the exercise seems to calm Jessica a bit, allow her to reclaim command of herself.

 

            “Now, you look at that chart. That’s all you gotta worry about right now; yes or no. That’s it.”

 

            “But my mother will kill me! And school! I want to be a dentist—I’ll be lucky if I get to finish high school and—“

 

            “No! Flow chart. Yes or no. That’s all.” Then, quietly, to Louise. “Get us some water, will ya?”

 

            Louise returns with the water. Mudflap is reading over the instructions on the pregnancy test box with Jessica. “You’ll do one, wait for the results, and then do the other. We’ll take it from there. Meanwhile, you start gettin’ worked up, just look at that flow chart, okay? Toilet’s down the hall on the left.”

 

            Jessica clutches the box and flow chart to her chest. “Thanks,” she mumbles, and shuffles to the bathroom.

 

            Mudflap picks up a tumbler. “Gotta admit, Louise, at first I thought you wanted me to buy them fer ‘a friend’.”

 

            Louise gulps down some water, surprised by how thirsty she is. “I know. That’s practically impossible, though.”

 

            Mudflap raises her brows.

 

            “I’m on the pill, and we use condoms.”

 

            “Good,” Mudflap nods, shoulders sagging with relief. “Critter talked to him years ago about wrappin’ up. Didn’t know you were on the pill.” Mudflap doesn’t add that she informed Zeke that she’d personally kick his ass if he knocked up Baby Belcher before the kid graduated high school.

 

            “Yeah, Mom put me and Tina on it years ago, right before Tina went off to college. She said it would make my periods easier.”

 

            “Smart woman.”

 

            “Yeah,” Louise says slowly, her mother’s true motives becoming clear to her. “Easier periods, and she doesn’t have to worry about me getting pregnant or have any more awkward conversations about sex. Good move, Mom.”  Guilt at how she'd talked to her mother the day before gnawed at her; no wonder Linda was so cool with her at breakfast--Louise was a real b-word.

 

            “I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you, about you an’ Zeke.”

 

            Louise sits up a little straighter, glad to derail her brain from her current line of thought. They’ve talked about Zeke in passing, but Louise hasn’t had a formal “talk” about their relationship with anyone, including Mudflap and Critter. They just sort of figured it out, and accepted them as a couple. “Oh?”

 

            “You two look happy together. Everything okay, fer real? Anything you wanna talk about?”

 

            “Oh trust me, if I were mad, you’d know it.”

 

            They share a smile; when Louise is mad, _everyone_ knows it.

 

            Mudflap presses on. “Really, Baby B, everything’s alright?”

 

            “Of course. He’s really good to me. We’re friends with benefits when he’s in town, friends when he’s not.” Louise can’t help smiling; Zeke always finds new ways to please her, sexually and otherwise. “It’s…it’s nice, really nice.”

 

           Mudflap watches Louise closely as she speaks, noting the softness in her smile, the glow in her eyes.  “I ain’t never seen him half as taken with a girl the way he is with you.  I know he can be intense and don’t always listen good when his enthusiasm gets the best of him. You ever need him to back off, you just let me know, okay?”

 

            “Uh, okay?”

 

            “’Cause I love ya both like yer my own kids, but if that boy gets outta control, I'll smack him back in line.”

 

            Louise frowns. “You think I can’t handle myself?”

 

            Mudflap shakes her head. “I'dve stepped in long ago if I thought you couldn’t. I just want you to know you got backup.”

 

            “Well, thanks.”

 

            “I believe we gal’s gotta stick together, the older ones helpin’ the younger ones.” Mudflap gestures down the hall. “I mean, I hear people talk about representation and shit, and that’s all good, but what use is lady senators and lady astronauts when yer a girl in trouble and ain’t got nobody to talk to?”

 

            A sadness that Louise has never seen before--almost a tragic look, really--flashes in Mudflap's eyes.

 

            “Uh, Mudflap…did…you…?”

 

            The older woman stares hard at her tumbler of water, and Louise knows Mudflap wishes it were something stronger. “I was sixteen, he was twenty-five. He made a lotta empty promises he didn’t keep. Momma kept _her_ promise an’ kicked me out, an’ I lost…everything. My parents, Jackie for a while, even the baby—he woulda been just a year youngern’ Zeke. Knocked around, did…I did a lotta things I ain’t proud of, but I survived.”

 

            She pauses. “But it all worked out. Now I gotta good man for a husband, a fine son, the ‘Snakes, a nice home, lots of friends…and I can even help mentor young girls,” she adds, shooting Louise a fond smile. “But I paid a high price for it, and I don’t want you to follow in my footsteps.”

 

            Louise reaches over and squeezes Mudflap’s hand. Mudflap, surprised by the contact, smiles back.

 

            “Speakin’ of payment—“

 

            Louise blinks. “Oh yeah, I have cash. How much did the tests cost?”

 

            “Aw hell, I don’t mean _that_.” Mudflap dismisses the cost with a wave of her hand. “The tests are on me. Jessica’s got her own car, yeah?”

 

            “Yeah…?”

 

            “Eh, I’ll have her drop off a couplea packages for me sometime. Nothing big.”

 

            “Mudflap!”

 

            “Honey, you can’t ask the One-Eyed Snakes to do freebies for ya.” Brows raised almost to her hairline, Mudflap looks so scandalized Louise almost laughs. “Or for a member of the Fischoeder Family. She owes you too. Maybe she can help mule in some drugs at yer prom?”

 

            “ _Prom_?” Her face twisted in disgust, Louise says “prom” the way most people would say “roadkill.”

 

            “Well yeah, yer going, ain’t ya?”

 

            “Uh, no.”

 

            “Uh, yeah, you are, Mr. Fischoeder’s orders. Fer sales. Fun is up to you.”

 

            Louise pinches the bridge of her nose. “Come on, Mudflap.”

 

            “Hey, it’s a party, ain’t it? Think of it as one big houseparty times ten. Make sure you go to the afterparty, too. Zeke did, made a ton of cash.”

 

 _That_ piques Louise’s interest. Maybe she can double-date with Rudy and Jessica, end up with three mules. But if she does that, she’ll have to get a date; who at school isn’t gross, would be a willing mule, and isn’t so stupid as to give away the game? She can’t think of anyone off the top of her head.

 

             Her train of thought is derailed by a screech from the bathroom. Jessica bursts out and runs over to them, tears streaming down her face, waving the pee stick over her head in victory.

 

            “Negative! It’s a negative! I’m not pregnant!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever made a flow chart to manage your worries? Yeah, me neither. But, uh, a...friend...told me they work.


	4. FOUR

           Having temporarily boxed away her frustration that the test results haven’t been posted a day early, Louise, pouring sweat in the cool of her parent’s basement, finishes her post-workout stretches. She grabs a bottle of water from the mini-fridge and sips as she paces. Between her long, early morning run and her long, early afternoon boxing session, she’s going to be sore as hell tomorrow, but that’s okay. _It’s something to think about other than the fact that my whole entire life depends on my ACT scores._

 

            A business degree from Seymore Bay Community College requires 63 credit hours. If Louise qualifies to take courses for credit her senior year, she’ll graduate high school with 12 hours under her belt—if she takes a summer class too, she’ll launch her college life with almost 25% of the work done already. If she stays on track, she could finish college _and_ the online hospitality management certificate by the time she’s twenty. And then her life will begin for real, everything she wants—her own apartment, her own car, no need to hide her smoking, the freedom to openly love and sleep with who she wishes—will be hers!

 

            Longing swells her heart, a yearning so powerful, so deeply rooted, she can barely stand it.  She feels like she’s standing tip-toe on the edge of a precipice, poised to fly, but held back by invisible and unbreakable hands.

 

            “Not bad,” she mutters, flexing in front of the long mirror she installed last week, admiring her work; at least there she has some control. But the sight reminds her of Dingleberry Bush, showing off his stupid muscles while girls surrounding them sighed, and she almost flings her bottle of water at her reflection.

 

            According to Gene, Tina discovered Louise and Zeke’s secret because the two were making goo-goo eyes at each other at the Christmas party. Naturally, that’s an exaggeration; Zeke can be pretty damn schmoopy, but Louise has never made goo-goo eyes at anyone in her life. Dingleberry must have seen the same thing, whatever it was, and drawn the same conclusion as Tina.

           

            Louise’s palms itch, and she wishes for the hundredth time she’d smashed him in the nuts with the mallet, or at least slapped the smirk off his face. So what if he said he wasn’t going to narc on her? He still knows, and still plans on holding it against her.

 

            Once again, she considers telling Mudflap, and once again, she decides against it. Logan’s apparently known for months and so far has done nothing except taunt her with the knowledge, and he’s only done it once, though he’s had plenty of other opportunities to do so. She’s seen him, at a glance and in the distance, several times over the past three months, visiting his mother. Occasionally he spotted her too, and they exchanged a cool, cautious nod, the acknowledgement of two people adhering to a mutual non-aggression pact. So why he decided to blow up their tacit agreement is beyond her—it was working so well! Of course, she’s also not sure why he thought they were just horsing around with the High Striker, and not in a fierce competition. Maybe worry about his mother has cracked his mind?

 

            A loud, house music version of “Stanky Doodle Dandy” makes her jump. Louise grabs her phone.

 

            “Bored of dick on tap already?”

 

            “Louise!”

 

            She laughs at her brother’s shocked tone; did he expect anything else from her?

 

            “Well, I was just going to call and see if you got the results yet, but if you’re going to be like _that_ …”

 

            “Not yet,” Louise sighs. “How did you cope with the antici…”

 

            A long, quiet beat.

           

            “…pation?” Gene finishes. “Uh, I didn’t think about it much, to be honest. I didn’t really want to go on for more school, and I sure as hell didn’t want to take college classes while in high school. I got high a lot.”

 

            “I’ve _gotten_ high,” Louise sighs, her head falling back in frustration. “And I’ve exercised. I even did _yoga_.”

 

            “Wow.”

 

            “Yeah, I know, right?”

 

            Louise is notorious for her dislike of yoga, or, more accurately, the fluffy, mystic woo-woo culture of white, suburbanite women she associates with it. Everyone in the family has heard her rant about it. She only recently ended her boycott of Lululemon workout gear. Nothing against the brand; it’s for the principle of the thing.

 

            Gene’s voice takes on the careful, tip-toe tone of someone trying to defuse a bomb. “Maybe…maybe Tina would have a better—“

 

            “Gene! Hey, Gene! Did you hear the one about the guy who invented Lifesavers candy? They say he made a mint!”

 

            He sighs deeply. Louise can easily envision him there in Dallas, over a thousand miles away, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Funny. But Louise, don’t you think it’s time to bury the hatchet already?”

 

            “In our sister’s overbearing, concern-trolling skull? Sure thing, Large Brother!”

 

            “She’s just trying to—“

 

            “Protect me?” Louise barks an angry laugh. “I can take care of myself. And what’s she trying to protect me from? Getting laid? Just because she can’t keep a guy around for more than a week—“

 

            “Come on, not cool. Don’t—uh—“

 

            “What? Don’t what? Thirst-shame her? She started it, with her ‘sneaking, lying little brat’ this and ‘disappointing Dad’ that. _She_ needs to apologize to _me_.”

 

            “Alright, alright, I give up! So, Michael. He’s doing great, thank you for asking.”

 

            Louise takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, imaging that she’s blowing out her rage in an angry plume. “I read a review of his show on the Dallas Voice’s website. They really love his diamond’s number.”

 

            Gene needs no other encouragement to fill Louise in on all the details—the four out of five star review, the gushing quotes about Miss Case’s lovely voice, her “It” factor, her creativity—and little more than an occasional “uh-huh” from Louise to continue going. But Louise isn’t really listening; she’s so wound up she can’t help but to replay her argument with Tina in her head, adding little embellishments here, justifications there.

 

            First, Louise is quite old enough to decide what she wants to do with her body and with whom she wants to do it, thank you very much. She doesn’t need “saving” or protection, and if she did, she wouldn’t turn to someone who, at almost 21, is just now reaching the level of independence that Louise mastered by the time she was 10. Tina doesn’t understand _shit_ about Louise or Zeke as individuals, and even less about them as a couple—who the hell is she, Miss “Three Thousand Fantasy Hours About Jimmy Junior” to judge?

 

            Maybe—just _maybe_ —had Tina approached it in a _polite_ way, Louise would have been willing to have a conversation. But Tina, as usual, just clomped on in, fired off accusations, called Louise names, and made dire threats. What was Louise supposed to do? _Of course_ she fired back and threatened to tell their parents about Tina’s career as a topless server and Hooter’s girl!

 

            Gene laughs at his own joke, which Louise missed. “We then went to Pappas Bros. Steakhouse. Best! Prime rib! _Evah_! And the Spanish octopus…!”

 

            “Sweet!” Louise gushes, barely aware of what he even said.

 

            Louise naturally _assumed_ that Tina’s secrets were as serious as her own, an illusion destroyed by her sister’s cool indifference to her threat.

 

            _“ You need to keep secrets from Mom and Dad because you’re just a kid living at home,” Tina told her, “I’m an independent adult. Revelation would be inconvenient for me, but devastating for you, especially since your secret is way worse than mine.”_

 

            In the end, the only victory Louise could claim was keeping Zeke on staff for the rest of winter break; after all, she reasoned, the goal was to hide their from their father, right? Wouldn’t it look weird if Zeke abruptly quit a week into his employment? Tina reluctantly agreed, for their father’s sake, the entire time acting as if she were making a major concession.

 

            “…And that’s about the time the dragons landed on the roof and we shouted ‘Caw! Caw! Caw!’” Gene shouts into her ear.

 

            Louise gives the phone a double-take. “What the freak are you talking about?”

 

            Gene sighs heavily. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.”

 

            Her shoulders slump. “I’m sorry.”

 

            “Look, Michael’s due back in a half-hour, and I need to take a shower. Um, call me back tomorrow, okay? Or whenever you can, you know, have a conversation.”

 

            “Gene! I _said_ I’m _sorry_! _Geeeeene_!”

 

            But Gene’s hung up. Louise stares at her phone, and just barely refrains from throwing it into the wall. _Shit_. Now she’s pissed off both of her siblings, and it’s worse with Gene, because she’s entirely at fault there; she’s only at little to blame when it comes to Tina. A tiny little bit, and only if you squint. Surely she didn’t break some obscure sister code by not divulging a secret that could get her in trouble, and, she believed, get Zeke arrested. Besides, was it _really_ her job to try to dissuade Tina from pursuing Zeke? Tina brought that embarrassment on herself.

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

 

            After a quick shower, Louise packs her overnight bag and heads to the kitchen to face the music in the form of her mother.

 

            Linda is at the counter, chopping vegetables for the dinner that Louise won’t be around to eat. She’s spending the night over at Jackie and Jane’s place, ostensibly to hang out and help with wedding planning, but in reality to jell-o wrestle at Mr. Fischoeder’s club. She wouldn’t be able to go at all—at least, not openly—if her mother hadn’t intervened.

 

            _“So her friends are a little older, big whoop Bob,” Linda scoffed at her husband’s concerns. “I like them. It’s her spring break, and she’s been working so hard. Let her go.”_

 

            Louise frowns at her mother’s back. Linda’s hair is quite grey now, but still thick and springy. There’s no sign of a dowager’s hump yet, and she’s still as peppy and active as she’s always been. Naïve, big-hearted Linda; this is the woman Louise told to mother a doll and leave her alone.

 

            “Hi, Mom.”

 

            Her mother glances at her, her face carefully neutral. “Hello, Louise.”

 

            _Fuck._ _She’s not going to make this easy, is she?_ Louise pours herself a glass of water, takes a sip, and coughs. “I’m sorry. About what I said the day before. It was uncalled for and out of line.”

 

            “Yes, it was.” Her words are blunt, but her expression is softer, and Louise knows she’s been forgiven.

 

           

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Jackie and Jane live in an apartment just a few buildings away from Mudflap and Critter, and they’re always floating in and out of each other’s spaces, so Louise isn’t surprised to walk in and find the foursome in the kitchen.

 

            Louise parks her bike in the living room as she always does, at the women’s insistence, as they don’t live in the best of neighborhoods. Louise thinks their place looks no more or less rundown than the building her parents rent, but she’ll take their word for it; Louise isn’t particularly acquisitive—the closest thing the family has to a minimalist—but she’s very protective of the stuff she has.

 

            “Pull it in, Baby B,” Critter says, and gives her an affectionate, if rough, hug. Louise returns it, and, catching him by surprise, swings out of his grip and twists his arm so it locks behind him.

 

            “Gotcha!”

           

            Someone pokes her in the ribs from behind, making her squeal and loose her grip. Critter slips loose and makes a grab for his boot knife.

 

            “Not bad, Baby B, but you ain’t ready to take on a group.”

 

            Louise turns to glower at Mudflap, who wiggles her index finger in greeting.

 

            “Yeah, yeah,” she grumbles. Ice Pick told her the same thing.

 

            Jackie, smoking at the table while Jane finishes up dinner, waves Louise over. “Take a rip, relax.”

 

            “What kind is it?”

 

            “Headfunk.”

 

            “Cool.”

 

            When she was younger, Louise never bothered to ask that kind of question, automatically accepting whatever marijuana was offered to her. Now that she’s older and more experienced, she’s developed definite preferences. Headfunk is a personal favorite.

 

            Louise puffs, watching Jane put the finishing touches on their spaghetti dinner. She sighs slightly as she exhales, glad she at very low-carb today, experience telling her that whatever Jackie and Jane serve, it won’t be compliant with her everyday diet.

 

            “Didja get Zeke’s picture?” Mudflap asks as she takes her turn on the pipe.

 

            Louise, already feeling a touch elevated, chuckles. Zeke sent a picture of himself, his mother, and his youngest brother to them all. Squinting into the light, his arm around his mom, his brother making a face at the camera, they posed outside of a strip mall somewhere in Montgomery.

 

            “I can’t believe his brother is really named Ricky Bobby,” she snickers.

 

            “Aw, don’t be sassy,” Mudflap says, but her eyes twinkle at Louise.

 

            “His mom looks…happy.”

 

            “Of course.” Mudflaps eyes flicker at Jane and Jackie, warning Louise to tread carefully, as the other two women don’t know Zeke’s secret. “She’s got her oldest boy with her.”

 

            Louise takes out her phone and looks at the picture again. Zeke bares little resemblance to his mother, but that’s not a surprise; Louise has met his father, Tony Smyth, owner of the smoke shop a block west of her parent’s restaurant. Zeke told her that he reckoned that his father would be pretty flush, were it not for all the ex-wives and children.

 

            His mother, Darlene, is a small woman, older looking than her 30-odd years would suggest, and rather pale, with sallow skin and the skinny-fat look of a woman who’s spent too much time sitting inside. That’s odd; Louise thought people left prison pale but buff as shit. That’s been her observation of the ex-cons in the One-Eyed Snakes. Maybe it’s different for women?

 

            Jane glances over Louise’s shoulder at the phone as she plunks a big salad bowl on the table. “Ah, young love,” she titters. “Louise can’t keep her eyes off him.”

 

            Her cheeks glowing, Louise shoves her phone in her pocket. “Shut up.”

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            They head out to the club in a pack, Jane driving Jackie and Louise in her car, Mudflap and Critter roaring behind them on their motorcycles. They all park together, and Louise notices that Critter keeps vigil while the women grab their bags. He herds them inside like a big, handlebar mustache-wearing sheep dog.

 

            This is the fifth time Louise has been in the warehouse turned club, and it’s yet to loose its novelty. Her body thrums with the pounding beat of “Infra-Red” by Three Days Grace, and she frowns, a sudden longing for Zeke making her heart actually hurt a little bit. They’ve been here together twice, the first time she wrestled, and again over winter break. God, she misses him, his solid, swaggering bulk, the look in his eyes that threatens a beat-down for anyone who touches her, the promise a wild, sleepless night in his arms. Louise watches the other couples dancing, grinding, fondling each other as Critter and Jackie shoulder a path for the others. _If only…_

 

            They make their way downstairs, ushered through by Mickey, and Critter escorts them through the darker, dirtier crowd in the basement, up to the jell-o pool on the dais. The women disappear behind the curtained off area that acts as a green room.

 

            “ _Heyyyy_ , Baby B!” Dirty Jen, a tall woman with giant breasts and a head of flaming red hair, gives Louise a hug. “I got a highlighter for ya—it’s too gold for me, but I think it will look good on you.”

 

            “Wow, thanks,” Louise says, brightening slightly at the offer of free makeup, especially from Dirty Jen, who works at the MAC store in Kingshead. Her taste is impeccable.

 

            Louise calls out greetings to the other women as she unpacks her bag. Smiling, she lays out her hot pink bikini and slips off her sneakers, congratulating herself for stocking up on end-of-season swimwear late last summer. Jell-O, she discovered the hard way, ruins clothes, and she doesn’t want to dispose of anything she spent a lot of money on. She’s not worried about the black leggings and t-shirt she’s wearing, which she’s designated as her to-and-from club clothes; they’re old, and black hides stains. It isn’t until she struggles to tie on her top that she realizes she has a problem.

 

            “Fuck!”

 

            Jane, who just poked her head out of her crop-top, turns to look at her. “What’s—oh my!”

 

            “Stupid late growth spurt,” Louise growls, finally managing to tie the bikini. “I forgot about swim wear!”

 

            Louise turns to look at her behind in the long mirror propped up against the wall. The extra 1 ½” around her hips made it a bit of a challenge to double-knot the bottoms, and they just barely cover her ass. The real problem is the top. Louise finally made it to a B cup. Not by much—she’s a small B, but still, a B—and the pink triangles were cut for an A cup. It’s enough to almost give her decent cleavage, which she likes, but she’s not impressed by the side and under boob she’s flashing.

 

            Carefully not looking at her, her face crimson, Jane hands Louise a roll of double-sided tape. “Just, uh…well, the good news is you’re a jar girl tonight, so you probably won’t have a wardrobe malfunction.”

 

            Louise gladly takes the tape and begins battening down her hatches. “Jar girl?”

 

            “Don’t worry, I’ll be out there too,” Mudflap tells her, teasing the roots of her brown hair to make it extra-voluminous. “It’s easy. Just look cute and thank the gentlemen.”

 

            Jackie, grinning as she watches her fiancé struggle to not stare at Louise and her overflowing assets, chuckles. “God, men are dumb. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I’ll pay for just a _look_.”

 

            Louise nods in agreement. She doesn’t mind, though; a fool and his money are soon parted and all that, and she has to do remarkably little for those dollars, especially as a jar girl.

 

            “Ready to go?” Jackie asks Jane.

 

            Jane flashes her a lascivious grin. “Uh-huh.”

 

            Mudflap and Louise exchange a look. It’s not a secret that jell-o wrestling is foreplay for the couple. Louise knows it works in her favor; men like watching women make out, and that means more tips, which means a larger cut for her.

 

            Out front, the music changes, melting into a driving 80’s hair metal beat. The crowd cheers as Mötley Crüe breaks into “Looks that Kill”.

 

            “And our first two ladies are Goldielocks and The Jackhammer!” Critter shouts. “Git on out here girls and show us what you got!”

 

            Both women run out on stage.

 

            Mudflap hands Louise an empty, cleaned out plastic jar, the type used to hold family-sized containers of cheese balls. “You exit left for Goldielocks, I’ll go right for Jackie. Remember, pose and look cute. And smile, Louise! Yer young and pretty. Use it.”

 

            She’s right, and Louise knows it; it’s stupid not to use every weapon in her arsenal, and men, being shallow and dumb, are easy pickings for a simper and a pretty face. She manages to settle her face into pleasant lines as she prepares to step out behind the curtain and into the spotlight.

 

            “On the right we got my ol’ lady, Mudflap herself, workin’ it fer The Jackhammer!”

 

            Mudflap parades in her baby blue polka dot bikini, wiggling her full hips for the crowd.

 

            “An’ on my left we got Li’l Baby B, collectin’ fer Goldielocks!”

 

            The only heels Louise owns are the thigh-high boots she wore to her parent’s Christmas party, and of course they’d look ridiculous with swimwear. She opted for flat sandals, reasoning that, at just over 5’11”, she doesn’t need the extra height anyway. Her smile wide, her hips swaying to the beat of the music, she strides out before the crowd, jar high in the air.

 

 _“Now listen up_  
_She's a razor sharp_  
 _If she don't get her way_  
 _She'll slice you apart_ ”

            She doesn’t dare jiggle her tits like Mudflap’s doing, partly because she doesn’t have much to jiggle in the first place, and partly because she’s sure that’s an embarrassment just waiting to happen. The men don’t seem to mind; first one guy, then another, then a steady stream of men make their way over, bills in hand, to stuff money into the jar.

 

            “Remember, ladies and gentlemen, ya vote with yer dollars! A vote for yer favorite gal is a vote fer her return! Also, the betting pool is officially open—go on an’ see Maria or Paco at the bar if yer interested.”

 

            Louise has never seen the place this packed before, warming up the basement hall so it’s only cool, not cold, as she’d feared. As usual, the crowd is heavily male-dominated. She can see flashes of faces, cheering, leering, as the lights sweep over the audience. The air smells of beer and liquor, a mix of sweat and body sprays with a trace of weed. It’s dank, it’s dirty-sexy, and damn it, why isn’t Zeke here with her?

 

            She catches Ice Pick’s eye. He nods and flashes a small smile. Nearing sixty, he shaved off the remains of his Mohawk last year, now pairing a proudly bald head with his grey beard. Louise spots several other One-Eyed Snakes in the crowd, working security, and she has a suspicion that he’s taking special care to watch over her.

 

            A sudden, collective cheer rises from the crowd. Louise looks over to see Jackie “The Jackhammer” on top of Goldielocks, her hand obviously working between Jane’s legs.

 

            Louise lets out a ululating cry like Xena and waves her jar at the crowd.

 

            She’s surrounded by men now, enthusiastically popping ones and fives in the jar—she thinks she even spots a twenty in the mix. A couple of WASPy-looking frat-types walk up, openly leering at her chest.

 

            Louise, knowing what’s expected of her and what’s at stake, plasters a grin on her face. She hates this part, simpering for fools she’d ignore or cut down to size with her sarcasm under any other circumstances, but the money’s good and she wants to be a full Associate in her own right.

 

            “I haven’t seen you around here,” says the taller guy. “I’m Jackson, this is Adrian. What’s your name?”

 

            Louise’s smile feels increasingly stiff, but she answers sweetly enough, though she can’t help taking a step back. “I’m Little Baby B.” She shakes the jar at Jackson, subtly reminding him of why she’s here.

 

            “I mean your _real_ name. You have a _real_ name, don’t you, sweetheart?”

 

            _Condescending asshole_. Louise opens her mouth to speak, when she suddenly catches a whiff of vaguely familiar cologne, a complicated cocktail of cedar and sandalwood, a trace of pepper laced with the faint smell of tobacco. A large, warm, long-fingered hand lands on her shoulder.

 

            “Everything okay, _Lil’ Baby B_?”

 

            Everything inside of her cringes because she knows who she’ll see when she turns her head. And there he is, Logan Bush, his long golden hair surrounding his dumb smirking face, his eyes twinkling wickedly as he obviously bites back laughter.

 

            “Just peachy,” she says through gritted teeth. She turns to Jackson and Adrian. They’re both wearing the _Oh shit!_ look of men who realized that they just hit on another guy’s woman. The frat boys are tall, as tall as Louise, but Logan looms over the three of them, a hint of menace in his smile.

 

            “I think you were going to tip the lady,” he says.

 

            “Uh, yeah. That’s all, man.”

 

            They all but empty their wallets in the jar.

 

            “Have a nice evening, Miss,” says Adrian, as he and his friend melt into the crowd.

 

            Louise stifles a laugh at the sight of the two all but running away with their penises retracted into their abdomens. The soft stroke of Logan’s hand, hot against her cool shoulder, makes her jump back.

 

            Instinctively, Louise holds the jar against her chest, as armor or a weapon, she’s not sure which. “Dingleberry.”

 

            “Well, well, well…” he drawls, his arms crossed over his chest, dragging his gaze slowly and deliberately up and down her frame.

 

            “Deep subject for shallow minds,” she snaps, a combination of rage and embarrassment making her blush so hard she breaks a sweat.

 

            “What an… _interesting_ development. It explains the dwarf. Where _is_ Gimli, anyway, helping Frodo destroy the One Ring?” 

 

            “What’s with you and Tolkien?”

 

            Logan shrugs. “Why isn’t he here looking after you?” His expression suddenly turns serious. “’Cause if I had a woman who looked like…that” he waves his hand, gesturing to her whole body, “you better believe I wouldn’t leave her unattended in _this_ crowd.”

 

            A deep grunt interrupts them. They turn to see Ice Pick looking like he’d love to show Logan how he got his nickname and drive one of the tools deep into his skull. “Move along, boy.”

 

            Logan steps back, and Louise remembers that Ice Pick was one of the bikers who helped Critter threaten to cut off his ears. Her grin is wide and genuine now.

 

            “Yeah, move along, _boy_.” God, this is almost better than the money she’s making hand over fist tonight.

 

            Logan backs away, his hands up. But before he goes, he locks eyes with Louise, and something she can’t quite identify flickers there. Sadness? Pity, maybe? “You’re better than this, Four-Ears.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally went with Mötley Crüe’s “Girls Girls Girls,” but thought it was too obvious and predictable of a choice, so instead I went with “Looks That Kill.” Go watch the video—it’s just stuffed with wholesome, old-fashioned post-apocalyptic 80’s cheese.
> 
> Also, sorry about the late post--work has kicked my butt! :-(


	5. FIVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy 420, everyone! I'm sure Louise would approve of me posting a touch early, in honor of the holiday.

           Louise awakens to a stiff neck and the feel of her phone buzzing in her slack hand, alerting her to a new message. Curled up under a blanket on Jackie and Jane’s couch, ears stuffed with silicone plugs to block out sounds of the women’s lovemaking in their bedroom, she fell asleep alternating between scrolling through her Pinterest feed and checking the school website. Louise rubs her face and picks a particularly irritating bit of sleep goo from the corner of her left eye.

 

 **Jess:** Check out your score!!!

 

            Louise can practically hear the record needle scratch as her whole body screeches to a halt. Her heart skips a beat, then kicks into overdrive, her body shaking with a wash of adrenaline. Practically panting, her fingers trembling, she unlocks her phone, opens the website, clicks the account button, and types in her password.

 

            She squeezes her eyes shut. Louise has waited for this moment for so long, and now she’s almost afraid to see the results. She needs to make at least a 25 on each section to qualify to take credit classes next year. She’s not particularly worried about math or science, but the English and reading sections were a total bitch. So long as she doesn’t see the results there’s always hope, always a chance…

 

            _Screw it._ Louise gathers her courage, takes a deep breath, and opens her eyes.

 

English: 25

Math: 34

Reading: 26

Science: 31

COMPOSITE: 29

 

            She did it.

 

 _Holy fuck_.

 

            She…she did it!

 

            Louise claps a hand over her mouth and screams into her palm, jumping up and pumping her fist in the air, dancing around the living room in her pyjamas. She stops to pick up her phone, tossed carelessly on the pillow, to read the scores again and again, finally hugging the phone to her chest in happiness.

 

            Eventually, calm enough to sit down, she folds her long legs under her as she texts Jessica back.

 

 **Louise:** I guess you’ll have to tolerate me in a bunch more classes next year. ;-)

 

            They text back and forth, sharing scores—Jess, not surprisingly, did better than Louise in everything, except math, where they tied. Rudy, who alerted Jessica that the scores were up, qualified too, though he only made a 33 in math, for which Louise plans to tease him mercilessly. Eventually, Jess leaves to eat breakfast, leaving Louise alone in a dark, quiet apartment, her heart singing with joy, but nobody with whom she can share her news, as her hostesses are still snoring in the other room.

 

            Louise throws on yesterday’s clothes and her hoodie, and steps out onto the little balcony. A couple of people are already clumped at the bus stop across the street, yawning into their hands. Louise is running on three hours of sleep herself—she’ll definitely need a nap this afternoon, to have energy for the Pesto’s party—but right now her body is buzzing with excitement.

 

            She unlocks her phone and calls Zeke. The phone rings four times, and Louise is about to hang up when Zeke finally answers, his voice rusty with sleep. “’Low?”

 

            “Oh shit, I’m sorry, I forgot you’re an hour behind!”

 

            “Louise? Louise baby, is that you?” A bit more alert, sounding slightly panicked, Zeke’s voice is nevertheless a welcome sound to her ears.

 

            “Yeah, I—“

 

            The sound of covers being thrown about, a bed creaking, a child’s whiny voice in the background. “What’s wrong? Stay right there, babygirl, I’m a-commin’, call Critter an’—“

 

            “Everything’s fine, calm down. I got my ACT results and—“

           

            “Yer alright then? Honey, ya scared the shit outta me.”

 

            “Yeah, I can smell it from here.”

 

            “Don’ sass me, I was worried.” Then, off to the side. “Go on back to sleep, R.B.”

 

            “R.B.?”

 

            “I just can’t call him Ricky Bobby,” he breathes into the phone. Then, more loudly, “We’re sharin’ a room at Aunt Gemma’s. She watched over him while momma was…away. Just a minute, I’ll go out ontta the back porch.”

 

            She can hear him stumble his way out of the bedroom and onto the porch, cursing under his breath when he stubs his toe on the couch.

 

            “There, I’m outside an’ I can talk now. So, ya did good, right?”

 

            Grinning, Louise tells him about her test scores, unable to resist pointing out that her math score equals Jess’s and surpasses Rudy’s.

 

            “Well shit, sweetheart, I ain’t surprised. Yer a genius.”

 

            “I wouldn’t put it like that. But you can.”

 

            “I’ll congratulate ya properly on Sat-Saturday,” he says around a giant yawn. “Damn, it’s still dark here. What time is it, anyway?”

 

            “Uh, it’s about 4:30, your time. Sorry.”

 

            Zeke grunts. “Can’t say I don’t need more sleep, but I’d rather wake up to yer voice than anyone else’s.”

 

            Louise shakes her head. “You’re so full of it.”

 

            “Ain’t.” He yawns again. “Sorry to yawn in yer ear. We got in…damn, ‘bout two hours ago. Me an’ Big Mac an’ Li’l Mac an’ Jerry were out drinkin’. I think I’m…yeah, I’m still drunk.”

 

            “What’s with all the Macs?”

 

            “Big Mac’s my uncle. Li’l Mac’s his son,” says Zeke, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Jerry’s Big Mac’s old Army buddy.”

 

            “Oh, well, _obviously_.”

 

            “You were wrastlin’ last night, right?”

 

            Louise bites her lip: _wrastlin’_? Sure, he’s still drunk and still waking up, but none of that accounts for the fact that his accent, already heavy, is now thicker than molasses. It...it does things to her.

 

            “Uh, sort of. I ended up being a jar girl.”

 

            “Ya ain’t done it before, have ya? Damn, sorry I missed it.”

 

            “It was no biggie. And before you ask, Ice Pick kept a close eye on me.”

 

            “Shoulda been me,” he mutters, and Louise is glad she left out the part about Jackson and Logan. It’s not important, and would just piss him off.

 

            “I’ll let you make it up to me this Saturday.”

 

            Zeke’s chuckle sends a pleasurable shiver down her spine. “Oh, don’t worry babygirl, I plan on it.”

 

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            “Oh my Gawd, honey, that’s _wonderful_!”

 

            Desperate for a nap, already regretting sharing her news with her parents, Louise submits to being smothered in a typical Linda Belcher hug.

 

            “That’s great.” Mort, giving her a significant look from his usual seat at the counter, reaches over to fist-bump her.

 

            Stretching, Louise just barely manages to tap her hand against his. Her mother rocks her, half-squeezes the life out of her as she coos how proud she is.

 

            “Lin. Come on,” Bob says behind them. “We should give her the thing.”

 

            “Huh?”

 

            “You know, Linda. The. Thing.”

 

            “ _Oooooh_. Yeah. _The Thing_.”

 

            Linda reluctantly lets her daughter go and begins rooting around her apron pocket.

 

            Louise rubs her neck, still stiff from last night, now sorer still from the violence of her mother’s cloying affection. “Well, _that’s_ not ominous or anything. What are you planning to give me, a shrunken skull?”

 

            Bob’s mustache twitches with laughter.  “We tried, they don’t take credit cards.” 

 

            Linda finally withdraws a small, blue velveteen box and hands it to Louise. “We know you can’t wear it for a few weeks yet. I thought it would look nice with those gold hoop earrings of yours.”

 

            Blushing at the memory of who gave her those earrings, Louise opens the box and stares in open-mouthed astonishment. Inside the box is a small plastic bag, holding a gold screw nose stud, punctuated with a tiny gleaming diamond.

 

            “It’s just a lab-created diamond,” Bob apologizes, “but the post is 14 karat.”

 

            “We know how hard you’ve been working, and we wanted to buy you something special.”

 

            Louise clears her throat. “Well, it’s not a key to my own car, but I guess it’ll do.”

 

            Touched by her parent’s thoughtfulness, her eyes shine with…happiness…as she hugs them both.

 

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

           

            Later that afternoon, having finished the prep work and finally taken a much-needed nap and shower, Louise considers her reflection in the long mirror in her bedroom. She’s aware she’s attractive, but typically thinks little of it; mirrors are best used to ensure that she’s clean and tidy, and to admire the results of her hard work at the gym. But, without Gene to approve her outfit, Linda being a no-go, and Tina effectively ghosting her, Louise is left to her own devices.

 

            _Stupid Tina_. Louise frowns at herself in the mirror. Last month, she tried to make peace with Tina, but her concern troll of a sister rejected her olive branch. In a rare fit of generosity, Louise decided to let bygones be bygones, and called Tina up, prepared to pick up their relationship as if they hadn’t fought at all.

 

            _“Really, Louise? You called me a jealous bitch and froze me out for months, and now you want to pretend like nothing happened?”_

 

            “Fuck you too, Tina,” Louise mutters under her breath.

 

            She shakes her head, trying to will away her irritation. This is one of the few parties she’s actually looking forward to attending, and she doesn’t want to ruin it by going in with a sour mindset. Linda’s often commented on how popular Louise has become this past year, which is true, but of course, Linda doesn’t know why. Louise is fully aware that she wouldn’t be invited to half the parties she attends if she weren’t a dealer, but she also knows the twins would want her to come even if she were straight edge. She smiles; it’s nice to know she’s wanted for herself for once.

 

            Louise gives her outfit a final once-over, to make sure she’s exuding the right level of casual, cool-girl chic. She’s learned a lot about sales over the years. From her father, she’s learned the value of offering quality product, and she makes sure she samples everything before she sells it, so she can speak with personal knowledge. Her experience selling candy bars—often on the down-low—as a kid taught her not only how to sneak sales, but also how to do questionable things in plain sight. But from her mother’s friend Angie, the essential oils lady, Louise learned that a good saleswoman isn’t selling a product so much as she’s selling an image, a lifestyle.

 

            Louise has paired worn, loose-fitting jeans, complete with holes to display wide-knit fishnets underneath, with the oxblood Doc Martins she bought the previous Black Friday. She snagged one of her father’s old plaid flannels before he returned it to the thrift store, and it looks great with the black strappy bralette underneath (naturally, she’ll have to button up the shirt before she leaves the house, then fix it later). She dug through her closet and pulled out the belt and pouch Aunt Gayle bought her at the renaissance faire up north on one of her cat club trips. The buckle is bronze, decorated with entwined Celtic rabbits, and the pouch is large and capacious. Sure, it’s kind of dorky, but she needs the extra space for product and money, and it's a better choice than the fanny pack Aunt Gayle threatened her with; that's one bit of 90's nostalgia Louise is happy to leave back where it belongs, to keep those stupid butterfly clips company. After all, purse is out of the question, and what’s she supposed to do, flap open a trench coat like a cartoon black market dealer? 

            Louise leans in close to the mirror and gives her eyeliner a final smudge, slicks on her favorite lip gloss, and, giving up on her uncooperative hair, ties on an ancient blue bandana, roughing up her baby hairs a bit so it doesn’t look too perfect. She threads the gold hoops through her earlobes and gives her head a light shake, feeling the earrings bounce on her cheeks like kisses. There. Done.

 

            “Bye, have fun,” Linda calls out from her spot on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in her lap.

 

            Bob, dozing at her side, jerks awake. “Remember, you’re helping me open tomorrow, so don’t stay out too late.”

 

            “Oh my God, Dad, I’ll be fine.”

 

            He grunts. Louise knows he isn’t best pleased by the fact that Linda is letting her stay out as late as she likes, especially since Mr. Pesto is out of town and won't be there to supervise the party. It’s a special treat for totally owning her ACTs.

 

            “And be careful of the new place next door. I don’t know what kind of crowd it’s going to attract.”

 

            “Yeah, Dad,” Louise rolls her eyes. “Nothing more terrifying than a vape bar full of hipsters sucking on pussy sticks.”

 

            Linda almost chokes on her popcorn. “You watch your mouth, Miss Missy!”

 

            “Louise,” Bob intones a warning, but his eyes are twinkling. “We watched that episode of _South Park_ , too.”

 

            “Fine. Sorry, Mom.”

 

            “Mmm. Be safe. And be good!”

 

            “I will.” Louise turns to leave.

 

            “Louise?”

 

            She turns to her father. “What?”

 

            “Don’ fergit yer ‘tegridy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've recently become a fan of Miraculous: The Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir. Yeah, I know, I know...I haven't been living under a rock, I swear, I'm just fashionably late to the party, that's all. Anyway, I'm sensing a bit of it creeping into my writing. Still, I wrote the part about Logan calling Louise "M'lady" at Wonder Warf well before I fell into the fandom.


	6. SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a potentially triggering event in this chapter. I’ve made a note in bold where the event begins, then summarized it at the end of the event, so potentially triggered readers can follow the story without undue distress.

           Louise steps out into the night, locking up behind her. Next door, Jake’s Vapes and Snakes is jumping with the sort of foot traffic her father envies. The door is propped open, and Louise can smell a produce section worth of fruity vapor wafting out into the street. Outside, small clumps of people, some vaping, others not, laugh and chat over whatever top 40 trash they’re playing inside.

 

            “Hey! Hey, Louise!”

 

            She turns at the sound of her name and groans. Vape pen in hand, Logan grins broadly at her, sapphire eyes sparkling with amusement at her irritation.  Nose in the air, she turns away and gives him a one-finger salute over her shoulder, his laughter ringing in her ears as she makes her way across the street.

 

            The Pesto’s building is much bigger than the one the Belchers rent. The family has a back entrance for their apartment, meaning Trev, managing the restaurant while Mr. Pesto is on vacation, doesn’t see how many kids are filling up the place.

 

            The party started a little over an hour ago, but already there’s overflow outside, revelers smoking cigarettes openly, puffing weed discreetly.  The air vibrates with the bass from whatever techno shit the twins have going on. Louise envies little about the twin’s life, except their van and the state-of-the-art sound system that blasts music in every room of the house.

 

            “Hey, dipshit!” Jess runs up on unsteady feet and gives her a hug, enveloping her in a cloud of Jack Daniels.  

 

            Louise raises an eyebrow at Rudy, standing a few feet away. He shrugs and smiles sheepishly at her; clearly he’s never seen Jessica this fucked up either.

 

            “I’m practically going through a tampon every hour!” Jess hisses in her ear.

 

            “Well, uh, congratulations.”

 

            “I’m birthing a blood baby!”

 

            “Yeah, that’s…hey Rudy, why don’t you get us some water?”

 

            The threesome drink their bottled water, laughing at everything and nothing. Rudy chews a cannabis gummy bear he bought from Louise the week before, while Louise and Jessica take hits off the joints and cigarettes that make their way to them. Jess seems determined to do _all_ the drugs tonight, but for Louise this is a work event as much as a social one, so she needs to stay reasonably sober. Eventually, Jess begins nuzzling Rudy, and Louise takes that as a sign that it’s time for her to slip away deeper into the party.

 

            Louise leaves the lovebirds to it, her hips bouncing to the beat of the music, calling greetings to Harley and Abby, who motion her over to their little group. She’s glad to join a group of romantically unattached friends. Already there’s couples necking in the corners, and it makes her grind her molars, the sight reminding her that there isn’t a broad, callused hand in hers, a husky voice purring all sorts of sexy promises in her ear in a thick Southern drawl. Not that Zeke would be at the party with her anyway, even if he were in town; it’s an unspoken but understood rule that graduates never attend high school parties. _Probably to avoid what Zeke and I are doing_ , she grins smugly to herself, glad, as always, to thumb her nose at expectations and rules.  

 

            It takes her almost forty-five minutes to find her hosts, but she’s okay with that, as it’s time profitably spent. She manages to sell about a third of the product she brought with her, including offloading the last of the Ganja Clauses she has in stock to new users who can’t handle higher THC items. She takes the time to give a pipe packing and smoking lesson to a n00b whose name she can’t remember. Louise is rather proud of herself; experience has taught her that it’s the little touches, like matching the right products to the right people, and showing someone how to use the things she sells, that all but guarantees repeat business.

 

            Andy waves at her from the pool table, where he’s setting up the balls for Ollie’s turn. “Hi, Louise, I like your bra!”

 

            They’re in a relatively quiet section of the basement, so his voice carries. Twelve sets of eyes turn to her. Her face hot, Louise begins buttoning her shirt back up, regretting her sexy grunge choice. “Thanks, Andy.”

 

            Ollie, meanwhile, makes his way over to her and gives her a hug. “You look really pretty,” he says, his arm draped around her waist, his eyes flashing an apology for his brother’s tactlessness.

 

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

 

            Logan chuckles, watching Louise’s retreating back, middle finger up high like a flagpole. He takes a hit off his vape pen, enjoying the mixed berry flavor, glad to get his nicotine fix without smoking; whoever invented vaping should get a medal, as far as he’s concerned. He and his parents didn’t coordinate this visit as well as they usually do, and they’re away at a two-day retreat they planned months ago. Bored, he decided to visit the Old Town section—he had no real plans in mind, but Seymore Bay, though growing, is still small enough he figured he’d find plenty to do, and plenty of people to do it with. That’s how he found himself at the new vape bar, surrounded by a group of friends and acquaintances he hasn’t seen since high school, with a small redhead smiling up at him.

 

            “Who’s that?” the woman asked.

 

            “The kid of my old boss,” Logan says, flashing her his most charming smile. Red—he’s not sure what her name is, maybe Nancy—blushes.

 

            _Pretty_ , he thinks to himself, mentally marking her as Plan B, if he gets horny and can’t find better. She has pale green eyes and orange-red hair, freckles dotting her small nose. Most guys would love her big tits, pushed high and on display in her turquoise cold-shoulder blouse, but Logan isn’t particularly impressed. He likes lean, athletic women, and Red, though by no means fat, just isn’t his type. Still…

 

            A group of guys next to them bursts into raucous laughter. He thinks he hears “hot pink bikini”, and glances over. _Shit_. It’s those two assholes who harassed Four-Ears the other night. Well, only one of them was an asshole; the smaller of the two seems to be more of the hapless sidekick type, chuckling with polite disinterest at whatever his friend said.

 

            The hairs on the back of Logan’s neck prickle. As an EMT he’s used to making quick decisions, guided almost as much by instinct as education and experience. Something about that guy—Jackson, that’s his name—rubs him the wrong way, and not just because he’s discussing a jell-o girl in public, which everyone knows is a good way to get on Mr. Fischoeder’s bad side. How a blabbermouth like that even got in is beyond him; he must have bribed one of the doormen or something. No, he doesn’t like it at all.

 

            Logan takes another puff and settles in for a long evening.

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Louise decides to call it quits a little after 12:30. Thanks to the twins, who bought bags of edibles to hand out as party favors a few days ago, and little sales at the party itself, Louise is up almost $80. Besides, the atmosphere is rapidly becoming thick with alcohol-laced hormones, and she’s doomed to be a solo operator until Saturday. Louise has to be up early the next day anyway, so she says her goodbyes and makes her way back to her parent’s place.

 

            The night is cool, and she wraps her flannel close to her body. She casts a weather eye at the vape bar, the only open business on street. The crowd has thinned out enough that everyone is inside. Good: no Logan in sight. Still, Louise opts to walk a block east and cross there, reasoning that Dingleberry won’t spot her, since he’d expect her to take the most direct route home. Just because he’s older now doesn’t mean he’s more mature, and she’s too tired to trade insults at the moment.

 

            What _is_ it about him that irritates her so much anyway? Okay, as a teen he was an insufferable bully, but even Louise can see he’s grown out of that phase. Now he’s just an arrogant asshole who loves pushing her buttons, which is annoying, but he shouldn’t grate on her as much as he does; she’s met worse. _Hell, I’ve been worse_, she grudgingly admits to herself.

 

            Later, Louise will decide that her distracted rumination was mistake number one. She’s been lectured since she was a kid about staying aware of her surroundings.  Ice Pick double-downed on it, reminding her that holding product and money makes her an especially tempting target-- _The best way to win a fight is to never get into one in the first place. What I’m teaching you is your back-up plan._

**#TRIGGER WARNING! SUMMARY OF THE ACTION IS IN BOLD BELOW.#**

 

            Had she not had her head in the clouds, she would have spotted them, a group of three guys, leaving Jake’s Vapes and Snakes and heading right to her. She would have immediately recognized that they weren’t simply strolling in her direction, they were striding in formation towards her. She would have switched course and run back to the Pesto’s, sweet-talked the twins into letting her crash in one of their beds that night.

 

            But as it is, Louise blinks, and there’s three large guys, two of whom she recognizes from the club, forming a horseshoe around her, boxing her in.

 

            Jackson’s grin is blatantly predatory. “ _Louise_ , we didn’t get a chance to talk last night.”

 

            “Yeah, there’s a reason for that, _Jack-off-son_.” Head high, voice strong and authoritative; she hopes she the waves of adrenaline don't make her trembling obvious in the street lights. She reaches a hand into her front pocket for her switchblade.

 

            _Fuck!_ Reasoning that she was literally just going across the street, Louise left her knife in her nightstand drawer, to make room for more product and money; mistake number two.

 

            “Jack, don’t,” says the other familiar blond, Adrian, who’s clearly smelling the same trouble that’s clogging Louise’s nose. “She’s not interested.”

 

            Adrian begins backing away, heading back to the vape shot, leaving her the hole she needs. _I’ll break through and run over to the Pesto’s—_

 

            But then the third guy, as tall as Louise and twice her weight, steps into the breach.

 

            She can hear Ice Pick’s voice in her ear. _Alright then, you’re a girl, use it._

 

            “So, we’re really doing this, huh?” She lets a slight tremble enter her voice, positioning herself so she looks ready to just slap their hands away.

 

            The big guy takes the bait, his guard down, his hands slowly reaching out to her. “Aw honey, we just wanna have a little fun—“

 

            She lunges forward, fists up, abs tight; a quick, powerful jab, and her knuckles are raw and bloody from teeth she’s sure she felt crack on impact. He goes down in a puddle of blood and curses. Ducking Jackson’s hand, wishing to God this tiny town didn’t roll up the carpets by midnight, she tries to scream as she lunges to cross the street, but fear has strangled her voice to a tiny squeak.

 

            “Fuckin’ whore—“

 

            She twists her arm out of his bruising grip, takes a step, and feels the edge of her boot stumble on a crack on the sidewalk.

 

            _So close!_

 

            Her ankle rolls.  Blinding pain, and she goes down, adding an unintentional rip to her jeans, bruising the meat of her palm with a jolt she feels up to her shoulder as she lands. She’s up in a second, half blind with unshed tears.

           

            A hand clamps over her mouth and nose. “Don’t waste your energy, sugar, you’re gonna need it. We’re gonna have lots of fun tonight.”

 

            _Don’t let them corner you! Elbows and knees! Scratch!_

 

            Jackson’s dragging her back, one hand suffocating her, the other bruising her breast over her clothes. Louise manages to twist her head the tiniest bit, just enough to bite his hand as hard as she can.

 

            He screams, tears in his voice as he shoves her away. “Cunt bit a chunk out of my finger!”

 

            Louise lands on all fours, her ankle screaming. She spits out a mouthful of blood. A hand fists her hair and pulls her up, howling, from the concrete. The big guy has staggered back to his feet now, and, his face twisted with pure hate, blood dripping from his chin, he looms over her and gut-punches her so hard a jet of watery vomit rises to the back of her throat.    

 

            Winded, limping, Louise is outnumbered and terror is kicking in. Scratch, bite, kick…she’s not going down quietly. Two sets of hands are on her, grabbing, hurting, violating. They’re slowly but surely dragging her back into the alley between Mort’s and the Belchers, hissing what they’re going to do to her.

 

            Louise hears two sets of footsteps running towards them.

 

            “Jesus, let her go, Jackson!”

 

            She’s thrown to the ground, more bruises, her tangled hair in her face. She hears Jackson and his goon flee down the alley.

 

            Adrian’s voice is wet with desperate tears. “I’m _so sorry_ , I really thought he just wanted to talk!”

 

            Louise flips her hair out of her pale face with shaking, bloody hands. Adrian hovers off to the side, twisting his fingers. Louise scarcely notices him, because her vision is filled with long golden hair and a scowling face that’s given her nightmares since she was nine years old. Heaven’s shittiest excuse for a guardian angel leans down, gently places his hands on her shoulders.

 

            “It’s okay, Four-Ears.”

 

           

 **SUMMATION:** **Louise is cornered by Jackson, Adrian, and another guy. Adrian runs off early, sensing that this isn’t something he wants to be part of. Louise takes down the largest guy, but rolls her ankle as she’s fleeing. She fights as hard as she can, but she’s injured, she’s scared, and she’s outnumbered. Just as she’s being dragged off into the alley, Adrian and Logan “Heaven’s Shittiest Excuse for a Guardian Angel” Bush arrive, chasing the other guys away.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time I’ve posted anything that I’m certain deserves a trigger warning. I’ve tried to respect community standards while not going overboard or spoiling the story for those who don’t need trigger warnings.


	7. SEVEN

            “I-I can’t believe—he’s not that kind of guy!” Adrian can’t even look Louise in the eyes as he babbles apologies for his friend.

 

            She glares at him with dazed loathing as Logan helps haul her to her feet, his frown deepening as he sees her favor her right foot.

 

            Logan scowls at Adrian. “Really? The evidence would indicate otherwise.” He turns to Louise. “Don’t be too hard on him, Four-Ears. He’s the one who ran back to the bar and got me.”

 

            She must have hit her head. Or she’s having a nightmare. Or someone slipped something in her drink. How else can she explain the events of the past few minutes, especially the part about _Dingleberry_ , of all people, running to her rescue? Louise blinks at him.

 

            “I’m fine,” she mutters, her voice strangely, carefully calm, distant sounding to her own ears.

 

            Logan shakes his head and wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her to his side so he can help her walk. “I’ll get you cleaned up and you can…decide who to call.”

 

            He turns to Adrian. “Thanks.”

 

            “Yeah, I’m…I’m _so sorry_.”

 

            “You’ve said that.” Logan frowns. “You should probably lay low for a while, think about who you choose for friends.”

 

            Adrian runs a hand through his hair. “Good advice.”

 

            Louise shakes her head. “You don’t have to…I’m fine.  I’m fine!” She shakes off Logan’s arm—or rather, he gets the hint and lets go of her, a smirk tucked in the corner of his mouth. Louise takes a step and cries out. He grabs her as she staggers, his steadying hands the ultimate _I told you so_.

 

            Logan glances over his shoulder to make sure Adrian is far enough away. “Look, you’re in shock, you’re bloody, and you might have sprained your ankle. And you just _reek_ of weed, by the way.”

 

            Her mouth twitches, the closest thing she can manage to a smile. “Jealous?”

 

            “Yeah, a little bit.” Logan gestures at a blue coupe. “This is mine. My parents are out of town, so we don’t have to worry about them. I’ll patch you up and you’ll decide what to do from there.”

 

           Louise's eyes narrow into suspicious slits. “What?  Why would I go with _you_?” 

 

            Logan rolls his eyes.  "Jeez, do you _really_ think I'd--look, you need help, and I'm a medical professional offering you assistance.  You want to tough it out on your own like an idiot?  Fine.  Whatever."

 

           He lets go of her, and Louise, balancing on one foot, realizes that--damn it all--he's right.  She's not sure how she's going to make it up the stairs as it is, and God help her if her parents see her in this condition.  She remembers the Logan who helped her break out of that stupid MODO seminar, the cowardly little shit who whimpered in the face of the snowball-fuled wrath of high school girls, and sighs.  "Fine."

 

             Logan nods.  "I guess you aren’t calling the police?”

 

            Leaning heavily on Logan, Louise limps over to the car. He opens the door and Louise sits down, allows Logan to help her settle her injured foot. She blinks, feeling like she’s moving and thinking at quarter speed. “Police?”

 

            Logan closes the door, then gets in the driver’s seat. He turns the ignition and begins wiggling the car out from between two other vehicles, frowning, tongue between his teeth.

           

            _He can’t parallel park!_ Louise feels some of her spirit returning, cutting through the ice and fog. “Want me to get out and spot for you?”

 

            “Shut up.”

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            In just a few minutes they pull up to the Mc Mansion Logan casually calls his parent’s place. Louise already has the passenger door open by the time he comes around to assist her. He helps her out of the car and lets her struggle as she hobbles over to the porch, leaning heavily on his arm. She sighs as she eyes the steps up to the door, her brow furrowed with determination.

 

            Logan rolls his eyes and sweeps her up in his arms like a bruised and bloodied bride. Her arms automatically fling themselves around his neck.

 

            “Hey, no! _No!_ ” She beats his shoulders and back with her fists.

 

            “Shut up, Belcher, I’m not letting you break your skull on my parent’s porch.”

 

            He’s wrapped her in his warmth and the scent of woods, and, to his credit, he’s not panting or struggling to carry her. Louise desperately wishes it were another pair of arms around her, holding her so close she can see the length and curl of each eyelash.

 

            _Zeke_. Her stomach rolls, and she swallows hard, suppressing the urge to hurl again, as she thinks of how angry, how _disappointed_ in her, he’ll be. One part of Louise is focused on remaining _calm_ , because if she’s _calm_ that means nothing horrible just happened, while another part of her keeps frantically circling back to what _did_ happen, what _could_ have happened, and the conviction that it’s all her fault.

 

            _I should’ve paid attention…I should’ve had my knife with me…Why didn’t I fight harder?...There were only two of them, I should’ve taken them down…_

 

            Logan lets her balance on one foot while he digs out his keys, then lifts her over the threshold and sets her down on a couch in the brightly lit living room. _They’re so fucking loaded nobody bothers to turn off the lights when they leave, apparently,_ she mentally sniffs _._

 

            “You comfortable? I can get some pillows for your back.”

 

            “Great, I’m just great,” she mutters.

 

            “I’ll be right back.”

 

             Louise blinks, looking around, as Logan closes the front door. She’s only been in the Bush’s home once, years ago, and remembers little about the interior, except that the place was freaking huge—seriously, you could fit, like, ten Belcher apartments in the first floor alone—and decorated with impersonal, almost aggressively good taste.

 

             Logan returns with a glass of water in one hand and a giant, professional-grade medical kit in the other. He hands her the water, and Louise takes a sip, grateful to have something to do with her hands. He tucks a soft throw around her shoulders, ignoring her protests.

 

              Logan sits on an ottoman at her feet. “Now, before I begin assessing the damage, I have to know, are you planning to contact the police? Because if you are, we need to get them first. For evidence.”

 

 _He’s so fucking casual, like he does this every day_ , Louise thinks, glowering at him. But of course, he’s an EMT; he probably _does_ do things like this every day. His expression is calm, authoritative, with a detached friendliness about it. It occurs to Louise that this must be his professional face.

 

              Louise looks down at her hands holding the sweating glass of water. The first two knuckles of her right hand are crusted with blood, and her wrist is a touch sore, but she expected that. What catches her attention is the burgundy dirt ground under her broken nails.

 

_No, not dirt…_

 

             Logan takes the pink-smeared glass from her slacking hands and rests it on the table next to her, but Louise is scarcely aware of it. She holds her hands up to her face, frowning in wonder as she turns them in the light. _Blood_. Blood, maybe flesh too, under her nails, her fingertips painted red with it. She can’t stop staring at her hands, at the proof that she fought and fought hard.

 

             Large, long-fingered hands, impossibly warm, surprisingly gentle, envelop hers, making her feel unusually petite. “You fought like a hell-cat, Belcher. As usual.”

 

            She lifts vulnerable eyes to his. “Did I? Really?”

 

             Logan’s eyes are brilliantly, almost hypnotically blue. “You were amazing, like always.”

 

            He takes her blood pressure, heartbeat, and temperature. Nodding with satisfaction, he proceeds to wash her knuckles, and, after close examination, determines there aren't any tooth fragments buried in her hand. “You’re scratched up, but you didn’t lacerate a tendon. I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but I’d like to glue this little part, just to make sure. No signs of wrist or other hand injuries. I bet his upper lip is a mess though.”

 

            Louise doesn’t know how to answer that, so she just nods. The whole night has an air of unreality to it. She glances over at the grandfather clock—probably an antique, it likely costs more than every stick of furniture the Belchers own put together—and is astonished to see that less than an hour has passed since she left the Pesto’s party. It feels like either 10 seconds or 10 hours have elapsed.

 

            “Hey.” His fingers gently squeeze her left hand.

 

            Louise blinks at him.

 

            “Stay with me, Four-Ears,” he says, and Louise blushes, realizing now that Logan must have been trying to get her attention for some time.

 

            “What, Dingleberry?”

 

            “When’s the last time you had a tetanus shot?”

 

            She squints, thinking. “Uh, last spring.” She pushes up her sleeve, showing him a thin scar on her forearm. “I was moving some pallets for Dad out by the dumpsters—he threw out his back.”

 

            Logan nods. “Good. I want you to keep a close eye on this, just in case—bite wounds can easily become infected. I’ll give you a tube of antibiotic cream; wash the area regularly and use the cream three times a day. Keep the area dry and clean, and see a doctor if it turns red, swells, or conditions don’t improve.”

 

             A sudden fear enters Louise’s heart. “Can I get AIDS from it?”

 

            He shakes his head. “Unlikely. The concentration of the HIV virus in saliva is much lower than it is in blood, and there’s…it’s technical, but there’s substances in saliva that inhibit the virus’s activity. What else—besides your ankle—hurts? Were you hit anywhere else?”

 

            “My stomach. When he punched me.”

 

            Logan nods. “Show me.”

 

            She shifts uncomfortably. Louise had enough presence of mind to button up her flannel on the drive over. Staring at an personality-free photo of the Bush family taken around the time he was her age, she follows his directions and lays down on the couch, carefully lifts the hem of her shirt to show him her abdominal area.

 

            Logan rubs his hands against his jeans. “Let me know if this hurts.”

 

            He places a warm hand on her belly, the contact making the hair on her arms stand on end. She feels him gently but firmly prod.

 

            “Do they really have snakes?” she asks, more to break the awkward silence than out of genuine curiosity.

 

            “The vape bar? Yeah, a handler brings them around. I held a garden snake and a boa.”

 

            “Ow!” Louise slaps blindly, feeling her hand come in contact with his upper arm.

 

            “Damn, your hands are like…cricket bats,” Logan mutters. Then, more loudly. “Was that a ‘stop poking the bruise’ ow, or a ‘my ribs are broken’ ow?”

 

            “Stop poking the bruise, you ass.”

 

            “Well, good news, Four-Ears; you don’t have broken ribs, no sign of herniation either. Go to the hospital immediately if you vomit blood, or have bloody stools or urine, or the pain doesn’t dissipate. But I think you’re okay.”

 

            “Cool,” she says tonelessly.

 

            She sits back up and he assesses her knees, her wrists and shoulders, and determines that they’re just general cuts and bruises, nothing to worry about.

 

            Logan pushes the ottoman back. “Now, I’m going to take off your boot and look at your ankle.”

 

            Louise wants to make some stupid joke about Victorian ankle spotting and hard-ons, but her brain is still too fuzzy, and it’s hard to connect her thoughts to her mouth. She just nods.

 

            Logan bends over and begins unlacing her boot. At some point after they made it to his place he threw his hair back into a messy ponytail. A long golden tendril falls in his face, and he blows it back in irritation. Louise reaches out to tuck it behind his ear, but thinks better of it; this is all too personal as it is. She watches his back and shoulder muscles undulate under his shirt as he gently releases her foot from the boot and, sitting back up, balances it carefully on his knee. He pulls off her black sock and begins to snicker.

 

            “Jesus, Belcher!”

 

            Louise glowers at him, already suspecting what he’s laughing at. “What?”

 

            “Your—your toes! You have monkey hands for feet!”

 

            Louise, whose toes _are_ unusually long, makes to kick him in the face, but he catches her leg and keeps it still.

 

             “I’ll stop, I’ll stop.” His professional mask shattered, Logan tries to pull his face back into serious lines again.

 

             “You better,” Louise mutters.

 

            He flexes her foot this way and that, manipulates her ankle, noting her flinches, the way she compresses her lips. “Good news; your boots probably prevented you from breaking your ankle. Bad news; it’s at least strained, possibly a mild sprain. You’ll want to rest it for a few days, keep it elevated and iced. I’ll wrap it for you and get you an ice pack, okay?”

 

           Louise nods. She watches him as he bandages her foot, then sets it carefully on the ottoman. The gentle pressure around her ankle feels so nice she ignores what sure sounds like him muttering, “Could peel bananas with those things” as he stands up.

 

           “I’m going to get you an ice pack and make some eggs. You should probably call…well, your contacts or whoever.”

 

            “Eggs?”

 

            Logan shrugs. “I’m hungry. And I bet you are, too.  You should at least eat the toast, to settle your stomach.”

 

             “Pig.”

 

             “I won’t make you any, then.”

 

            “Fine, don’t.”

 

           “Fine, I won’t.”

 

           "Fine!"

 

           "Fine!"

 

          Wisely intuiting that Louise could keep this up for hours, even in her sleep, Logan drops it and leaves her alone, phone in hand, to begin a conversation she never thought she, of all people, would have to have.

 

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

 

            An hour later, Logan, Critter, and Mudflap sit together in the living room, practically suffocating under the weight of an uncomfortable silence, as Louise finishes freshening up in the first floor half-bath. Critter is stretched out on the couch, smelling strongly of beer, dozing with his mouth half-open. Mudflap, her eyes hollow from interrupted sleep, watches Logan as he gathers up the plates from his and Louise’s fourth meal.

 

            Of course he made plenty of bacon, eggs, and toast for the both of them, and of course Louise protested again that she wasn’t hungry. Logan just shrugged and tucked into his own portion, watching out of the corner of his eye as Louise took a tentative nibble, then, eyes wide with surprised delight, proceeded to dispatch every bite. She didn’t even leave a crust behind, using the last bit of toast to wipe her plate clean of every trace of egg and bacon grease. Logan smiles to himself as he takes the dishes to the sink; he’s not a good cook in general, but he can whip together a mean plate of scrambled eggs.

 

            Logan takes his place again on the love seat. “You don’t think she fell, do you?”

 

            Mudflap gets the hint. “Third door on the right?”

 

            “Yeah.”

 

            Now that she’s been patched up and fed, her contacts ready to take her home, Logan’s ready to get Louise off his hands. Sure, he enjoys their verbal sparring—he always did—but the presence of the bikers, seemingly huge, definitely out of place in his mother’s aggressively tidy, slightly prissy home not only evokes terrifying memories, it reminds him how deeply Louise is entrenched in her criminal lifestyle.

 

            It’s not like he didn’t sell a little pot for Mr. Fischoeder when he was in high school, but for Logan, it was a lark, a way to act out, not serious business like it obviously is for Louise.

 

            He hears the two women before he sees them. Louise hobbles in, Mudflap at her side, and sits back down. Mudflap arranges the ice pack around Louise’s ankle before taking her own seat.

 

            “So. First,” Mudflap leans forward, elbows on her knees, and smiles at Logan, “I wanna thank you fer looking after our girl. We owe you one, son.”

 

            Louise groans, knowing that Mudflap is right. She’s half-convinced that’s the worst part of the whole ordeal.

 

            It takes all his willpower, but Logan manages not to smirk at Louise. “I’m glad to help.”

 

            “I’m glad to hear it, ‘cause Mr. Fischoeder wants to have a meetin’ with us all tomorrow. You in?”

 

            It’s obviously not a question. He shifts uncomfortably; so much for getting Louise off his hands. “Yeah. I guess.”

 

            “Good. Someone’ll come by and pick you up between eight and ten. Be ready. Any information you got will be ‘preciated.”

 

            “Uh, okay.”

 

            Critter opens an eye. “Time to go?”

 

            Mudflap and Logan stand up at the same time, and there’s an awkward moment where both of them hold a hand out to Louise, to help her get to her feet. Louise takes Mudflap’s.

 

            “We brought the truck, so ya don’t gotta ride with a gimp leg,” Critter says, giving her shoulder a fond pat.

 

            “I’ll be there in a minute,” Louise says, gesturing vaguely at Logan. “I wanna…”

 

            Critter and Mudflap nod and go outside.

 

            Alone, favoring her right foot, Louise stares hard at Logan. He crosses his arms and smirks down at her. “Yeah, Belcher? Got something to say?”

 

            “Why?”

           

            “Why?” He blinks at her. “Why wouldn’t I?”

 

            “Because we’re enemies, duh.”

 

            “Oh my God.” Logan facepalms. “You’re still on that? How many times do I have to apologize for being a jerk when I was a kid?”

 

            “Once would be nice!”

 

            “Fine.” He closes his eyes and takes a steadying breath. “I’m sorry, I was a dick in high school. Better?”

 

            “It’s a start.” 

 

            Logan rubs his eyes; it’s almost four in the morning now, and he has some stupid meeting in a few hours. “Look, I’m shit at apologies, okay?”

 

            “I’ll say,” Louise mutters under her breath.

 

            He rubs the back of his neck. “I just…do better with actions than words, alright? I show I’m sorry rather than say it.”

 

            A memory echoes in the back of her mind: _“Really, Louise? You called me a jealous bitch and froze me out for months, and now you want to pretend like nothing happened?”_

 

            “And maybe, with Mom being sick and all, I’ve been thinking about the past in general, and feeling shitty about some things I’ve done, and I wanted to show you an apology. Damn, Four-Ears, do you have to make _everything_ difficult?”

 

            “Duh, are you new here or something?”

 

            They share a thin smile.

 

            “I guess…maybe…I’ve held onto things longer than I should have. _Maybe_.” Louise rubs her thumb over the bandage on her knuckle. “It was kind of…sorry. For my part. My _tiny_ little almost nonexistent part.”

 

            Logan shakes his head, but also extends a hand to her. “Truce?”

 

            She considers his hand. “How about…an entente?”

 

            “Oo-la-la, so fancy.” He shrugs and flashes a grin. “Why not? Entente it is.”

 

            They clasp hands in a quick shake, gripping lightly, as Louise’s shaking hand is also the one she injured. Logan and Louise share a tight smile, knowing that their relationship has changed, neither sure what that means for the future. The quick honk of a car outside startles them both.

 

            “So, till tomorrow, M’lady,” he offers her a slight bow and opens the front door.

 

            “You’re just a mess—agh!”

 

            Logan sweeps her up in his arms again.   “If you can’t walk, more or less, by Friday, go to the hospital. Meanwhile…”

 

            Louise tries to glower at him, but he’s so over-the-top absurd she’s fighting hard against a laugh. “So gross.”           

 

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

 

            Though her ankle feels much better now that it’s been iced, wrapped, and booted, Louise isn’t confident she can climb the stairs up to the apartment like a normal person. Feeling a bit like Tina that time she sprained her ankle, Louise ends up sitting down and lifting herself up one step at a time, backwards, with her hands and good leg; _Hey, if it’s stupid, but it works, it’s not stupid, right_? She takes a moment to rest on the top landing, trying to figure out how she’s going to stand.

 

            After climbing to her feet with as little drama as possible, Louise, glad to hear her parents snoring and farting away in their room, makes it to her own bedroom as quietly as she can. Sitting on her bed with a groan, she reaches into her pocket. Her phone has been buzzing with message alerts practically non-stop for the past hour.

 

            “First prize for guessing who they’re from,” she mutters under her breath.

 

 **Zeke:** ?!?!?!?

 

 **Zeke:** You ok?

 

 **Zeke:** call mi as soon as you gt this.

 

 **Zeke:** you there

 

 **Zeke:** whats going on

 

**Zeke: RU OKAY?**

 

 **Zeke:** Call me now.

 

**Zeke:   Call**

**Zeke:   Me**

 

 

            They go on like that, easily twenty more messages along the same theme. Louise isn’t surprised; Critter told her on the way home that he called Zeke immediately after calling Mr. Fischoeder. “Kid roared like a bull,” he added.

 

            Her stomach twists, and she regrets the midnight snack Dingleberry set in front of her. Zeke must be so pissed at her, so embarrassed to have ever felt any affection for her; she’s a weak piece of shit who can’t defend herself! What kind of guy would want a girl like that? Mr. Fischoeder is going to drop her tomorrow, she’s sure of it—and there goes her future, right down the crapper—and Zeke’s going to dump her too.

 

            _Might as well get it over with._ Louise hefts herself back to her feet and turns on her fan and some music, to drown out the conversation she knows she can’t delay forever. The phone in her hand begins to ring. Louise doesn’t need caller ID to figure out who it is.

 

            “What the fuck? Why ain’choo answered me?”

 

            It sounds like he's in a crowd of some kind.  She can hear someone making announcements in the background.

 

            “I just got home, doofus.”

 

            “Don’t…damn it, girl! I ain’t gonna be home in time fer the meetin’.” His voice is loud, tight, the sound of a man trying to hold his rage under control.

 

            _For fuck’s sake, he could at least try to have some empathy here!_ “Sorry to be such a problem. Don’t do me any favors.”

 

            Louise hangs up. _Asshole! Fucking asshole!_

 

            A realization cuts through her rage like a hot knife through butter, leaving her weak in the knees and making her collapse down on her bed; he called her _girl_. Not sweetheart, or honey, or babygirl, or the other disgusting little sugary endearments he likes to use. Just _girl_. That’s how he talks to all the girls around their age. Tammy. Jocelyn.

 

            Tina.

 

            She actually feels a pain in her chest, like her heart is literally breaking. Louise clasps her hands over it, as if she could press the pieces together, but the events of the night overwhelm her, and self-pity takes over. Louise, disinclined to self-pity in general, has no defenses at all the few times she experiences it, and soon she’s drowning in a tsunami of loss. She, who prides herself on her toughness, her independence, was almost…nearly…and she owes her safety to _Logan_ , of all people! Her future with the Fischoeder Family—everything she’s worked for these long months—has been destroyed in a single night. And Zeke…no more hazel eyes twinkling up at her, no more goofy grins calling up a smile on her own face, no more callused but gentle hands and strong, hairy body next to, on top of, inside hers…Louise faceplants into the pillow and sobs herself to sleep, not even bothering to untie her boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike Logan, I’m not a medical professional of any kind, but I did do some basic research regarding her injuries. Real medical professionals, please forgive the no doubt numerous errors here.


	8. EIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild trigger warning: there is discussion of Louise's attack, albeit not in great detail, and the "r" word is used.

          Louise sits at the prep table in the restaurant kitchen, left foot up on a stool, slowly working through the little trivial details she can manage with her injured hand; wiping down menus, marrying condiment bottles, refilling salt and pepper shakers, and so on.  Sure, she damn near fell out of bed that morning, her ankle having seized up over the handful of hours she managed to sleep, but she has an endless supply of coffee and aspirin, her parents totally bought her line about tripping over a branch, and the little bit of rest she got helped improve her world view.

 

            If Mr. Fischoeder wants to drop her…well, that sucks, but she’s made just over $1,000 working for him. That’s something. If he wants to fire the best dealer at Huxley High, well, screw him. She’ll find another way to make money; Louise Belcher has plenty of hustle, and is nothing if not resourceful.

 

            As for Zeke…she swallows hard. _Leave it to me to not realize that I l—l-lo…how I feel about him until I've lost him_ , she muses to herself. But if he looks at her, the girl who punched one guy’s teeth out and bit a chunk out of another, and thinks she’s weak, well, screw him too and the horse he rode in on! Even _Logan_ admitted that she did well, though she did need help like some candy-ass damsel in distress. There are _plenty_ of dicks out there just _begging_ for her to hop on, right? At least she won’t have to deal with him this morning; one drama is enough before noon.

 

            The restaurant phone trills. Linda, out front counting the till, answers it. “Oh, hi Mort!”

 

            Louise already has a pretty good idea that he’s not calling to exchange social pleasantries, but listens anyway.

 

            “…And she tripped over a branch, imagine! And then my angry girl got so mad she punched the sidewalk in frustration. Yeah, she’s fine, she’s fine, just a bruised hand and rolled ankle. We still have plenty of ACE bandages from Tina…she taught herself how to wrap it using the YouTubes!”

 

            _The Youtubes?_ It’s such a funny, old-people thing to say that even her father, who Louise is convinced rode a woolly mammoth to school, stifles a laugh, shooting her a repressive look.

 

            “Now, I want you to take it easy today,” Bob says for the third time that morning. He’s worried, she can tell; Louise isn’t the family klutz, and she has a reputation for hiding her injuries, like a cat.

 

            She shakes her head. “Dad, we’ve been _over_ this. I do counter work, resting and icing my ankle as much as I can, then cut out a couple of hours early and order dinner for us. And I sit and continue icing and I don’t do anything else. Did I miss anything?”

 

            “No, it sounds like you—“

 

            “ _Louise Gloria Belcher!_ ”

 

            She jerks her head in the direction of the kitchen door. Linda, perfectly centered in the frame, crosses her arms, a thundercloud with glasses.

 

            “Yeah, mom?”

 

            “Mort wants you to come over. He’s redecorating, and wants _your_ opinion about couch fabric, for some reason.”

 

            “That’s weird,” Bob muses, casting his daughter a vaguely suspicious glance.

 

            Louise _pifts_. “He probably wants to get our opinions separately,” she says, thinking fast. “You know, to make sure we don’t influence each other. No need to be jelly, Mom.”

 

            “I’m not jealous, Louise,” Linda sniffs.

 

            “Yes you are,” Louise snickers. “You’re totes jelly…you’re—you’re _toast jelly_!”

 

            “I am _not_ toast jelly, Miss Missy!”

 

            It’s up to Bob, as usual, to referee his wife and youngest daughter. “Louise, that’s enough.” He turns to Linda. “When does he need her?”

 

            “He asked if she could come over by 10:00.”

 

            Bob glances at the clock. “Well, it’s nine now, and she’s practically done. Louise, finish those bottles and you can head out.”

 

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Twenty minutes later, Louise is sitting in a folding chair in Mort’s office. Her Captain surrendered his desk to Mr. Fischoeder, who did not hesitate to adjust the setup to his liking. The fact that her heart is thundering in her ears doesn’t stop her from internally snickering at Mort’s low-key huffs of irritation as Mr. Fischoeder raises the chair and stacks three piles of paper in a tower to make more room for his elbows.

 

            Louise was prepared to see Mr. Fischoeder, Mort, Mudflap and Critter this morning. She even braced herself to see Dingleberry, currently rubbing his hand over his stubble as he tries to catch her eye, clearly as amused by Mr. Fischoeder’s power play as she is. She was _not_ , however, prepared to walk in and immediately lock eyes with Zeke, his eyes ringed with blue-black circles of exhaustion, looking wan in the bright morning light filtering through the blinds.

 

            Logan and Zeke instantly leapt to their feet the moment she hobbled in the room. Zeke moved as if to step forward, but stopped himself for some reason, instead flashing her the most pained look she’s ever seen on a human face. Good: dumping her should hurt like _hell_. Logan was closest to the door anyway, and, deciding she needed to save her energy and fortitude for whatever Mr. Fischoeder decrees, she submitted to be escorted to his chair. Louise is sure he clucked around her almost as much as Zeke would have (if he still cared about her), inquiring after her bruises, her knuckles, the swelling of her ankle. He kept it up, a steady stream of medical chatter, as he unfolded another chair and sat down.

 

            “Yes,” Mr. Fischoeder says. He pauses to take a drink of water. “Good morning, Baby Belcher. I believe you are already acquainted with Mr. Bush?”

 

            She scrunches her nose; old habits die hard, and, entente or no entente, he’s not her favorite person in the world, especially now that she owes him so much. “Yeah—yes, Mr. Fischoeder.”

 

            “Good. Then we can skip the introductions. So,” he claps his hands lightly. “I have already heard statements from the others. What we need now is to hear your side of it. Time, location, how many involved, and so on. We can take a break whenever you need one. Also…”

 

            Mr. Fischoeder turns slightly pink. He clears his throat. “I need to know where you were touched, and with what. And how. You may tell Mudflap in private, if you wish, and she will disseminate the details to me. The information will be kept confidential, I assure you.”

 

            Louise gulps. She knew this would be part of it, but she spent most of her time mentally preparing herself to argue that she would still be a valuable Associate. “I understand, Mr. Fischoeder. I’ll…I’ll tell you those things, in private.”

 

            “Very good. Let’s begin.”

 

             Mr. Fishoeder asks her a number of detailed questions. Louise takes her time, thinking carefully, answering as honestly as she can.

 

             “So, you turned towards the Warf to walk an extra block, rather than take the more direct route and simply cross the street. Why is that?”

 

              “It was a nice night, I wanted--” her lie crumples before Mr. Fischoeder’s raised eyebrow.  “--and, I wanted to avoid the vape shop crowd.”

 

                “Why is that, Baby Belcher? Did you see your future assailants there earlier?”

 

                “No, sir.”

 

               “Do you believe the location attracts a dangerous or unsavory sort of clientele?”

 

 _Pussy stick sucking hipsters?_ The corner of her mouth trembles with suppressed laughter. “No, sir.”

 

                He looks at her patiently, waiting for her to continue.

 

                Louise briefly considers blaming her dad’s warning, but dismisses the idea; nobody would doubt that Bob would say such a thing, but nobody would believe she’d actually heed it, either.

 

                “I…um, Ding—uh, _Logan_ —and I have a long history of fighting, and I saw him there earlier.”

 

                Logan visibly flinches, a quick movement she spots out of the corner of her eye. She hears Zeke, sitting directly behind her, shift in his seat.

 

                “I see. Did you fear Mr. Bush would attack you? Rob you? Threaten your person in some way?”

 

                “No, sir. We just…argue. Exchange insults.” God, it sounds so fucking lame, even to her own ears.

 

                “I see. So, you were on your way home from completing business, carrying both money and product, and you took a slightly digressive route to avoid…exchanging insults with someone. Is that correct?”

 

                Louise can’t help slumping slightly. “Yes, sir.”

 

               He raises a brow and nods. “Let’s continue…”

 

               More questions. Though she tries to paint the absence of her knife in the best possible light—she left it at home to make room for more money and product, after all—Mr. Fischoeder makes sure she knows that was a mistake: “We took the time to train you to use that weapon for a reason, my dear.”

 

  '           Things look up for her, however, when he updates her about her assailants' injuries. “My sources say they checked in at Devereaux General Hospital at approximately 3:30 AM, claiming to have been in a bar fight.” His eye begins to twinkle. “Per their statements, they were attacked by four large men. No mention was made of a teenage girl.”

 

               Everyone in the room titters.

 

               “You will be pleased to know,” Mr. Fischoeder continues, “That the large one, a Mr. Quinton, is now down one-and-a-half teeth, with two more loosened, but up twenty stitches, and with a rather nasty scratch mark dangerously close to his left eye. Mr. Jones’s assailant bit deeply into the meat of his thumb, requiring thirty-six stitches and a tetanus shot. He may also experience some neurological damage.”

 

                Louise can’t help but to puff up a bit at that, and just barely restrains herself from turning in her chair to gloat at Zeke; is _this_ the girl he plans to dump?

 

               Eventually, confident he has all the details he needs, Mr. Fischoeder dismisses the others.

 

               “Wait! I wanna stay with Lou--Baby B, Mr. Fischoeder, fer…emotional support.”

 

               Louise clenches her fists, refusing to look back at the speaker. She meets Mr. Fishoeder’s gaze and gives a tiny shake of her head.

 

               “No, that will not be necessary, Ezekiel. You may wait out in the parlor for your little girlfriend.”

 

                Zeke reaches out to touch her shoulder as he passes, but she flinches away from his hand. She and Mr. Fischoeder sit in silence until the others file out, closing the door behind them.

 

                Mr. Fischoeder steeples his fingers. “Now, my dear, I’m going to ask you some deeply personal questions. I know this isn’t easy to discuss, and my offer to speak with Mudflap instead still stands.”

 

               “No sir, that won’t be necessary.” She’d far rather talk to Mudflap about the details of her assault, but this is the perfect opportunity to speak privately with Mr. Fischoeder. She can’t miss what might be her last shot to salvage her career with the Fischoeder family, fuck the embarrassment.

 

                It takes almost ten long, humiliating minutes, not a second of which she’d repeat for a million dollars in cash. Per his request, Louise shows Mr. Fischoeder every cut and bruise, even lifts her shirt to show him the dark finger marks peaking out of her bralette. She tells him where she was touched, the disgusting things they threatened to do to her. He pales slightly as she recites the details in a hard, staccato tone, staring at a point on the wall over his shoulder.

 

               “Nothing was inserted into any orifice of your body?”

 

                “No, sir.”

 

                “No ejaculate touched your body?”

 

                “No, sir.”

 

                “You were not forced to perform any sexual acts for these men?”

 

                 “No, sir.”

 

                 Mr. Fischoeder closes his eyes, humming as he thinks. He stands up, and, rounding the desk, sits next to her. Shockingly, he takes her hands in both of his. They are quite cold.

 

                 “Louise,” he says softly, his expression surprisingly kind; it occurs to her that he’s never addressed her by her correct name before. “In your opinion, as you understand the meaning of the word, were you raped?”

 

 _Raped_. The word hangs in the air between them. While astonished that it was Mr. Fischoeder, of all people, who finally used it, Louise finds herself curiously relieved to hear someone finally say the word she can’t even bring herself to think.

 

                “No, sir.” Her voice is barely a whisper; she clears her throat. “No, sir. I was sexually assaulted, but not raped.”

 

                “Ah good, good, I’m glad to hear it.” As if he flipped a switch, Mr. Fischoeder, the sensitive new-age man, is gone. “Thank you for your assistance. You may go now.”

 

                Louise blinks at him: that’s it? “Um, Mr. Fischoeder?”

 

                A slight sigh. “Yes, Baby Belcher?”

 

                “I—I just want to say that I know you…you don’t like carelessness, but…but I’ve worked very hard for you for almost a year without problems. I will be more attentive in the future.”

 

               The corner of his mouth twitches. “I'm sure you will.  And from now on you will choose your knife over extra room in your pocket. I think club work is on hold for a while--it's not a punishment, my dear," he adds, noting the expression on her face.  "It's entirely for your own safety.  However, your prom is coming up soon, is it not?”

 

                “Y-yes sir.”

 

               “We will bring in some exciting new products for you. And you must find a date, my girl. Do something with your hair, buy a pretty little dress, have fun!”

 

                She knows she’s grinning like a fool, but she can’t help it; he isn’t firing her! “Yes, sir!”

 

               He flaps his hand at her, a dismissive gesture, and Louise rises to her feet. She hobbles to the door, has her hand on the knob, when Mr. Fischoeder calls her name.

 

               “Yes, Mr. Fischoeder?” She turns to see him smiling at her, his eye twinkling.

 

               “This is a dangerous line of work. If I dismissed everyone who has experienced violence in my service, I would have no Associates left. You are one of my top sellers, and your behavior has been exemplary. Broken teeth and stitches…excellent work, Baby Belcher. Now go and give that boyfriend of yours a kiss. You will be contacted shortly about my decision regarding how to deal with your assailants.”

 

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

 

               Louise enters the front parlor to be met by Mort, clearly chomping at the bit to get his office back, and Zeke, his eyes red and sunken with weariness. She turns to her Captain first.

 

                “You _know_ Mom’s going to want to look at fabric samples or something the next time you see her.”

 

                 He chuckles. “It was the best excuse I could come up with.”

 

                 “Have you considered redecorating for real though?” Louise doesn’t actually care, but she’s trying to avoid Zeke’s pleading looks. _He just wants to get me alone and get it over with._

 

                 “What’s wrong with this?” Mort asks, spreading his hands and gesturing to the pink and blue pastel room. To Louise, the Laura Ashley prints and overall vibe just _screams_ oversized shoulder pads and parachute pants—and not in a good way—but it’s her mother, not Louise, who wants to decorate vicariously through Mort.

 

                 “Nothing, it's just…a little dated, don’t you think?”

 

                  He grins. “Most of my clients are 80-year-old widows, Louise. To them, this _is_ current.”

 

                 They share a soft chuckle, both aware of Zeke’s eyes on them.

 

                “Why don’t the two of you spend some time in viewing room one? Down the hall to the left. And don’t leave anything biohazardous for me to clean up you two!”

 

                She shies away from Zeke’s offered arm, confident he’s being gentlemanly just to let her down easy; fuck that. They hobble slowly to the viewing room and shut the door.

 

                She turns to him, determined to take charge, to cut off whatever bullshit he’s going to say to try to mollify her.

 

                “Zeke, I think we should break up.”

 

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

 

              Zeke turns as white as an embalmed corpse in the refrigerator in Mort’s workroom. He plops heavily down on one of the pews. Head bowed, he’s the picture of a defeated man.

 

              “You—why—I—“

 

               “We’re just too different.” She looms over him, clenching her fists against the strange shaking that began in her chest and is radiating out to her limbs. “The—the age difference, and…w-we never see each other…a-a-and—“

 

               Zeke jerks his head up at her stuttering. He squints at her. “Ya don’t mean it.”

 

               “Yes I—“

 

                A relieved grin spreads over his face. He runs a hand over his eyes. “No, ya don’t. Yer pushin’ me away, but ya don’t want me ta go.”

 

                Curse him and the stupid sexy accent she could cut with a knife! Her knees weaken, shaking too hard to support her. She sits next to him before she falls, curling away from him. “No! Just—just g-g-go and—“

 

                “Baby, I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Where’s this comin’ from?”

 

                 Her teeth are chattering too hard for her to speak.

 

                 Zeke moves closer, but doesn’t touch her. “You know I ain’t the kinda guy who blames a gal fer what some shithead does to her, right?”

 

                 Louise nods; she never thought he’d blame her for the attack, only for being some wuss who couldn’t handle her own business.

 

                “I’m proud of ya fer fightin’ so hard. They gotta lie about bein’ attacked by four guys just ta save face!”

 

                She turns glistening eyes to him. “So…so you aren’t mad at me?”

 

                “Why the hell would I be mad at _you_? I’m mad at _them_ fer hurtin’ m’girl. I’m mad at _myself_ fer not bein’ there fer you. I’m mad that some other asshole had ta save ya. It never occurred to me to be mad at _you_.”

 

                 His expression is so earnest, begging her to believe him. Louise looks deep into his eyes and realizes that he’s telling the truth.  She exhales a long, shuddering breath. 

 

                “You…aren’t…you don’t think I was w-w-w-weak, needing help and—“

 

                He grasps her shaking fingers with his own trembling hands. “Weak? You? Lookit me, Babygirl: ya broke teeth and damn near bit a chunk outta a guy!”

 

                Her laughter is shaky. “Yeah, but…but I shoulda been…what if Logan and Adrian hadn’t shown up when they did?”

 

                He flinches. “But they did. Sweetheart, you won. Don’ shake yer head at me.”

 

                “But—“

 

                “Louise honey, how many fights have ya been in?”

 

               She thinks for a moment. Her size and overall reputation for being a psycho tends to precede her. “Uh, three, I think.”

 

               Zeke chuckles softly. “I’ve been in at _least_ four times that many. Any time ya come out lookin’ better than the other guy, ya won. And that almost never happens if ya ain’t got help.”

 

               Louise, determinedly independent, stares at him. To her, it’s always a weakness to ask for help.

 

               “You know that scar yer always askin’ about?” Zeke taps his shoulder. “Well, I can’t say much about how I got it, but I’ll tell ya this; if Critter hadn’t been there then, I wouldn’t be here now.”

 

               Louise sighs. “So…you…you don’t want to dump me then.”

 

               He pulls her close, his hand cradling the back of her head. He boops her nose gently with his. “Babygirl, I was in an Uber the second I hung up with Critter last night. Ya heard me at the airport, didn‘cha? I could barely hear ya over that damn PA system.”

 

               So that’s why he sounded so angry! “Oh.”

 

               “An’ I fuckin' _hate_ airports.”

 

               “You hate airports?”

 

               “Too confusin’. Too crowded.”

 

               She draws back a bit, contemplating him. “You’re scared of flying.”

 

               He turns pink. “Am not! It just…it just ain’t natural, bein’ thousands of feet in the air like that.”

 

               Her limbs weak with relief, she begins giggling.

 

              He sighs, his face flushed with embarrassment. “Fine, git it outta yer system. No, I ain’t dumpin’ ya. I reckon ya ain’t really tryin’ to break up with me either, then?”

 

              Louise shakes her head, unable to speak around the lump in her throat.

 

              “Good.” Zeke gently rubs his rough knuckles against her cheek. “’Cause baby, if ya wanna break with me fer real I—I’ll just haveta live with it, I guess, ‘cause I aint’ the kinda guy who pushes himself on a gal, but—damn it Louise, ya gotta _talk_ ta me about these things! Don’t push me away, or think ya know what’s goin’ on in my mind. I—I…I care about ya too much fer that.”

 

              She nods, tries to speak, but the words stick in her throat. Why is talking about feelings (Gross!) so hard for her? She licks her lips. “I like it when you do that.”

 

              Her voice is so soft he wouldn’t have heard her if she wasn’t practically in his lap. “Whaddya like, babygirl?” Zeke flexes his fingers at the nape of her neck. “Ya like it when I play with yer hair?”

 

              “Yeah. No! I mean, yeah but…I…I like it when you…” She gathers her courage; she can do this. “I—I like it when you…when you, you know, call me pet names and stuff.”

 

               Zeke blinks at her, then grins the goofy smile she can’t resist. He nuzzles her cheek. “I always thought ya were just indulgin’ me.”

 

                “I was. I am. I mean…you call everyone _girl_. I don’t…I don’t want to be just another _girl_.”

 

                He freezes, exhales a long, shuddering breath. Zeke takes her face gently in his hands. “Trust me, Louise, y’ain’t just another girl ta me.”

 

                Physically and emotionally exhausted, their lips meet, tentatively, softly, an apology and a promise. They part a few minutes later, Zeke almost staggering with exhaustion to Critter and Mudflap’s truck. They take him back to their apartment, where he spends most of the day in a power blackout, an immobile, snoring lump in the guest room. Louise hobbles back home, and waits for further instructions from Mr. Fischoeder.

 

 


	9. NINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut alert! 
> 
> Also, I don’t know why, but I had to listen to a lot of ‘80s rock while writing this chapter.

            Critter, leaning against the truck he rebuilt with parts that _definitely_ weren't stolen, flips the toothpick hanging out of his mouth and sighs, amusement making the corner of his mustache tremble. Across the parking lot, he can see his wife, Louise, and four other ladies, all wearing masks, all wearing black, poised to kick in the door of the little motel room where Louise’s assailants stupidly holed up.

 

            The Sand Flea, your classic no-tell motel, is a popular spot for vacationing students as well as locals looking to enjoy a little strange on the side, because it’s cheap as shit and the owner ignores whatever is going down, so long as you pay your bill on time. Mr. Manoogian is probably in the back office by now, counting his kickback, possibly enjoying the 'shrooms Critter gave him as a tip.

 

            Ice-Pick, Rat Daddy, and a few other One-Eyed Snakes are in position at various points of the property, to make sure Jackson and Brant follow orders and leave town within an hour. Critter, Zeke, and Logan are officially present to provide the backup he’s sure the ladies won’t need, as well as provide one of the two getaway vehicles.  Critter, however, figures his primary purpose is to make sure Zeke, like a bull elephant in heat, doesn’t try to gore Logan in competition for his chosen cow.

 

            No, not heat. Critter thinks for a moment. Sidecar had to watch an elephant documentary for school last week and Critter, tired from work, a bit buzzed, and too lazy to get off the couch, watched it with him. _Musth_ , that’s it; bull elephants, eager to prove dominance, sometimes looking for a mate, go into a hyper-aggressive, violent state known as _musth_.

 

            Zeke, on his right, is showing all the characteristics; head high, each movement a swagger, he practically pisses pure testosterone as he cuts irritated glances Logan’s way at regular intervals, just daring the guy to give him a reason to fight. Critter can’t blame him; he’d be growling under his breath too if some other man had to save Mudflap—even one of their brothers in the One-Eyed Snakes. Yes, even Zeke. Critter helped raise Zeke, taught him his own values, and one thing Critter drilled into him was his responsibilities towards his woman. Finding a quality woman, difficult as it is, is much easier than keeping one, and no woman worth keeping wants some punk-ass bitch who can’t protect and defend her.  It doesn't matter how tough the gal is; a _real_ man should shield her from the world. Through no fault of his own, Zeke missed the perfect opportunity to show off his power, to prove his value to Louise, and now they both owe her safety to the tall blond with the model-perfect looks smirking on Critter’s left.

 

            “I’m glad Adrian left already. He doesn’t deserve what those two are going to get,” Logan says quietly, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

            “He’s friends with them assholes, ain’t he?” Zeke shifts his weight, taking a little step forward.

 

            Logan shrugs. “He got me to help her, didn’t he?”

 

            Critter wisely cuts over whatever Zeke was about to say. “We got the right ones. Brace yourselves, boys; it’s almost time.”

 

            He glances at his watch, a far more discrete way to check the time in the dark than looking at a bright cell phone. The luminescent numbers indicate it’s almost exactly 11:15. “Count down in ten, nine, eight…”

 

            Zeke snorts and turns his back on Logan’s shit-eating grin.

 

            Critter shakes his head; who wants to be in his twenties again? _Young, dumb, full of cum…no thank you._

 

            The bang of a broken door echoes across the property, shattering the silence. A bright rectangle of light appears, and the six women pile into the hotel room.

           

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Louise spent the evening on tenterhooks, counting the minutes until she could creep down the fire escape and to Zeke’s waiting truck. Thankfully, business was slow, so her parents closed shop early. The family ate Chinese delivery while they watched “Sense and Sensibility,” Linda’s movie choice. Bob dozed off after about 15 minutes, waking with a snort when his wife began sobbing as Eleanor trembled at her sister’s side, begging Marianne to not die. Louise picked around the noodles on her plate and restlessly turned over the night’s plan in her head.

 

            Mudflap called her earlier and, through code and euphemism, communicated the plan; since Jackson and Brant thought three against one was fine, six women—three for each guy—will burst into their motel room, rough them up, and order them to get out of town and not come back, or else. With Mr. Manoogian already on the Fischoeder payroll and willing to turn a deaf ear, and the Sand Flea having a reputation for general disorderliness, it should be an easy mission. Thanks to a “coincidental” plumbing issue, the guys were moved to a first floor room on the far side of the property, away from most of the other guests, so the odds of police interference should be minimal.

 

            Zeke, waiting outside his truck, opened the passenger door and helped her in, and Louise sank into the seat with a sigh; her ankle was much improved, but still tender, not really up to much walking.

 

            He hopped into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and put on the signal. Checking the mirror as he merged into traffic, he flashed her a quick, apologetic smile. “Sorry baby, I didn’t dare park any closer.”

 

            “It’s alright.” She clicked the seat belt into place. “Um, I forgot to ask. Your mom isn’t mad at you for cutting out suddenly, is she?”

 

            “Nah.” He kept his eyes on the road. “Think she was kinda glad ta git rid of me, actually.”

 

            “No.”

 

            He shrugged. “Ya gotta understand, babygirl, she had me when she was barely fifteen, and kinda went off the rails. Didn’t have much ta do with me ‘till I was almost six—Grandma June raised me, Dad helped. Honestly, our relationship’s really more like brother n’ sister than son n’ mother. It’s fine, ‘till she tries to parent me.”

 

            Zeke patted her thigh. “Don’ worry about it, honey. We had a nice visit, an’ I got to see family an’ old friends, some I ain’t seen since I moved to New Jersey. She even gave me my great-grandma’s sweet potato pie recipe. You like sweet potato pie?”

 

            “Only as long as my mom doesn’t make it,” she shuddered.

 

            He chuckled and turned onto Mudflap and Critter’s street; the story of Mrs. B’s bland, unsweetened sweet potato pies is a family legend. “I’ll make it fer you sometime on one condition.”

 

            Louise raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

 

            “Ya don’t put that canned whipped topping shit on it.”

 

            She inspected her nails. “Oh, so Cool Whip it is.”

 

            Zeke shuddered. “I’ll make ya fresh whipped cream, and you’ll love it.”

 

            And so Louise, her stomach knotted with nerves and mu shu pork, rode off to her first throwdown cackling with laughter.

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Five minutes until go time. Logan Barry Bush leans against Critter’s truck, arms crossed, internally laughing his ass off at the redneck pygmy gorilla Four-Ears calls a boyfriend. Nothing personal against the guy; their paths have crossed on occasion, and they got along well enough.  He vaguely remembers Zeke at a party years ago, shotgunning beers and staggering back behind a shed with some equally drunk girl.  He's pretty sure he bought weed from Zeke the summer before he left for college.

 

            No, Logan doesn’t care that they don’t make any sense together. If Four-Ears is content to horse around with a guy who couldn’t hitch together a grammatically correct sentence if he were paid to do so, fine. If she can look at the two of them in the mirror and not see some _Lord_ _of_ _the_ _Rings_ fanfic come to life, mashing Galadriel and Gimli together, well, there’s no accounting for taste.

 

            Logan side-eyes Zeke, cracking his knuckles, pumping himself up for action. The thing that pisses him off isn't just that Gimli is abusing a child, it’s that nobody around her seems to have her best interests at heart. Her parents are oblivious, and everyone else appears content to let her do what she wants while shielding her from the consequences.

 

            _Even me_ , he wryly admits to himself. What else would he be doing there? Fischoeder offered Logan a spot on tonight’s mission, and he accepted just to see the whole mess through, though he hopes he doesn’t have to actually fight. Logan knows how to throw a punch and all that, but he considers himself more of a lover than a fighter; if he could challenge her assailants to a swimming competition, he’d be set.  

 

            Not that he's blind to what Zeke sees in her—Louise is already far too sexy for her own good, highly charismatic, and she’ll clearly be a smoking-hot adult in a few years, once you push past the fact that she’s a violent lunatic. Logan blushes, remembering waking up a few nights after the Belcher’s Christmas party, his heart racing, his boxers sticky, trace memories of a dream flashing through his mind; something about long, leather-clad legs clamping down on either side of his head as Louise straddled his face, all but smothering him.

 

 _But that’s her parent’s fault_ , he reminds himself for the billionth time, looking at the shadows of six women hovering outside the motel door. Who else but Bob and Linda Belcher would let their nubile teenage daughter swan around in thigh-high fuck-me boots?

 

             Logan shakes his head, pushing aside the memory. He long ago gave up any embarrassment about wet dreams, but he’d be damned if he’d let them infect his waking behavior. Hell, he even had a wet dream about _Linda_ , all those years ago when he worked at the restaurant; she and Bob argued about something that day—probably about him, he realizes in retrospect—and her passion turned the fading middle-aged beauty into a total MILF in his sleeping teenage brain.

 

           Logan can’t do anything to help Louise, to save her from the dark path she’s decided to walk—it’s not his place, and he wouldn’t want to expend the energy trying, anyway. He knows he’s an asshole: he’s been told it often enough, by girlfriends, his mother, strangers on the street…but he’s also decent enough to know that Louise deserves much better than what she’s getting. He’s determined to be the one adult around her who _acts_ like an adult, who treats her like the kid she is. Right now, that means helping to beat the shit out of the S.O.B.s who tried to rape her.

 

            Critter cuts through his rumination. “Five, four, three…”

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

 

            The women, three on each side of the door, crouch low in anticipation. Goldie and two other members of the Easy Beavers are on the left, settling the eye and mouth holes of their ski masks in place.  Bat tucked under her arm, Mudflap eyes her watch; fifteen seconds to go.

 

            Behind her, Mudflap can hear Curly Sue flicking her knife open and closed, a nervous gesture that never fails to grate on Mudflap’s nerves. She shoots the younger woman a repressive look over her shoulder. Curly Sue shrugs, but closes her knife and keeps it that way. Mudflap nods, and looks over at Louise.

 

            Baby Belcher, she’s glad to see, is crouched as low as she can go with her gimp ankle, her ski mask firmly in place, bat ready to go. She offers the girl an encouraging nod, which Louise returns, as eloquent as words: _I’m ready, you can count on me._

 

            Mudflap hopes so. She doesn’t like bringing kids to this sort of thing, but Louise has to scuff her boots sometime, and Mudflap reckons she’s earned her spot on this social call, all things considered. Anyway, it was Mr. Fischoeder’s decision, and it ain’t her place to question him.

 

            She did, however, quiz Louise minutely before they left; Louise was too eager, too excited, for Mudflap’s comfort.

 

            _“Remember, Baby B, I’m in charge of this operation. You do as I say an’ everything’ll be fine.”_

_Louise tucked her ski mask into the back pocket of her jeans. “Relaaax, Mudflap. They’re injured, there’s six of us, and they don’t suspect a thing.”_

_Mudflap shook her head. “This ought to be an easy operation, but things can get outta hand real fast. I want this to be clean and quick, an’ no complications, an’ that ain’t gonna happen if you don’t listen to me. Just follow my lead an’ everything’ll be okay. So. If I tell ya to back off, whattdya do?”_

_Louise, frowning before Mudflap’s seriousness, responded, “I back off.”_

_“If I tell ya to crack heads, whattdya do?”_

_“I crack heads.”_

_Then, softly:“ And if I tell ya to slit a guy’s throat?”_

_A long pause. Mudflap’s face is perfectly serious. Louise thinks for a moment, and responds with equal seriousness, “I slit a guy’s throat.”_

_Mudflap nods curtly, satisfied. It was the pause, as Louise turned the idea over in her mind, gave it serious consideration rather than a blithe answer, that sold her. “Good. Hopefully it won’t come to that.”_

 

            Mudflap checks her watch: ten seconds to go. She and Goldie exchange a look. They can hear the quiet murmur of voices in the motel room, the faint sound of a television. Mudflap’s adrenaline is surging, she’s ready to kick ass. She holds up a hand and begins to tick off the seconds on her fingers. Five…four…

 

            Goldie sets herself up in front of the door, the other women crowded behind her.

 

            Three…two…one…

 

            _BANG!_

 

            Goldie’s steel-toe boot hits the sweet spot, just to the left of the lock on the cheap door, and it flies open in a shower of little splinters. Goldie and her team, followed closely by Mudflap, Curly Sue, and Baby Belcher, swarm the room.

 

            As they hoped, the men are caught completely off guard. Brant, closest to the door, turns from the mirror where he was picking at the stitches on his swollen lips, horror plain on his face. Goldie’s team takes him down swiftly in a flurry of boots and bloodstained bats.

 

            Jackson makes a dive for the bathroom, obviously planning to lock himself in, maybe try to shimmy out the little window over the toilet. Curly Sue leaps forward with a joyful, ululating cry, grabs him by the hair and drags him backwards screaming his fool head off in a high-pitched, girlish voice. She presses her knife against his throat, just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. That shuts him up. Curly Sue pushes him down to his knees, hovering menacingly over him, knife at the ready.

 

            Mudflap strides over, lightly tapping her palm with her bat, her grin wide and feral. Louise, too excited to feel pain in her ankle, follows close behind, bat at the ready.

 

            “I hear you two like raping girls. Three against one don’t seem quite fair when you’re the _one_ , does it?” Mudflap pushes the end of the bat under Jackson’s chin, tilting his head back and up so he’s forced to look at her.

 

            Jackson’s eyes are wide, terrified, like a calf at the slaughterhouse. “Look lady, I don’t know what she told you. You got the wrong guys. We were just talk—“

 

            Mudflap jabs him in the gut with her bat. Totally unprepared, he spews up a watery fountain of vomit. Retching, half-sobbing, he nearly faceplants in a puddle of his own sick.

 

            “We don’t like lies or liars around here, boy. You done fucked with the wrong gal.”

 

            Goldie, meanwhile, leans down until she’s eye-level with Brant. Also on his knees, his nose is a bloody mess, his eyes are already swelling into puffy, bruised slits. “You got anything to add, shit-stain?”

 

            Brant, who did, in fact, crap himself sometime during his beat-down, just shakes his head.

 

            “Smart boy,” Goldie coos, then spits in his face.

 

            Mudflap nods to Louise; her cue. Louise steps forward, towering over Jackson, an avenging fury in black. “Here’s the deal, Jackson Jones and Brant Quinton—“

 

            Their eyes widen in animal fear as she rattles off the name of their frat and their address, their parent’s names, addresses, vehicle make and plate numbers, just as she rehearsed with Mudflap. Power floods her veins, she’s tall and terrible, almost painfully aroused as they cower before her.

 

            “You leave in an hour and never come back to this town again. We have people watching _you_ , people watching your _families_ , we’ll know if you come back, or go to the police. Stay away and keep your bitch traps shut, and everything will be fine. Otherwise…”

 

            “It’ll be the last thing you son-of-a-bitches do,” Mudflap adds, her voice quiet, almost caressing. “Understand?”

 

            They nod.

 

            Outside, two trucks screech to a halt directly in front of the room and blare their horns.

 

            “Git on the floor, face away from the door, and count to sixty. Then git up and pray to God our paths never cross again.”

 

            Goldie and her crew run out the door to their getaway truck. Mudflap leads her girls out. Louise sees one of the men’s cell phones on the floor and asks her leader a question with her eyes. At Mudflap’s nod of approval, Louise crunches it under her heel.

 

            Crowing with victory, Mudflap and Curly Sue hop in the bed of the truck, then grab Louise’s arms and haul her in. Critter hits the gas almost the second her feet leave the ground, and the One-Eyed Snakes and crew burn rubber on their way out the parking lot, whooping and shouting.

 

            Louise slides across the bed of the truck, rolling into Zeke’s waiting arms. She grabs him and kisses him hard.  “Take me back to your place. I have a pussy to break.”

 

            “Jesus Christ! Not everyone’s into kiddie porn, Belcher!”

 

            She looks over, suddenly aware of the others in the bed of the truck. Mudflap and Curly Sue are tactfully ignoring the scene, talking among themselves and congratulating each other on a job well done. Logan, on the other hand, is lodged into the far corner, shielding his face from the offensive view.

 

            “Jealous?”

 

            “Be disgusting in private, will you?”

 

           

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            As planned, Critter drops everyone off at his and Mudflap’s apartment. Zeke and Louise take off in his truck for his cousin Leslie’s place, because Zeke, having foreseen how the fight would affect his teenage girlfriend, made plans for the night in advance.

 

            What he did _not_ foresee, however, was how uninhibitedly, unabashedly aroused she would become. “Gonna make me slam inta a tree, honey,” he gasps, swerving in time. Her hand is still at work on his crotch.

 

            “Adds spice, doesn’t it?”

 

            He pulls up to the house and stops abruptly, making them both jerk against their seatbelts. “Stay here. I’m takin ya through the back porch, them stairs ain’t a good idea in yer condition.”

 

            A few minutes later, Zeke comes around the side of the house to find Louise already out of the truck and limping towards him. He meets her half way, grabs her throat and squeezes just hard enough to feel her pulse dance against his fingers. “I told ya to wait, babygirl.”

 

            She playfully nips at his lips, squeals as he lifts her up in arms. This is the second man in as many days who’s swooped her up like a bride, but this is the first time she’s been held by the right one. Supported in arms as thick as tree trunks, as strong as boulders, she looks in his eyes under the streetlights and knows that she is protected.  Cherished.

 

_Loved._

 

             She stares at him in soft wonderment as he carries her around the house and through the backyard, across the porch and into the basement where they held their trysts the summer before. He rests her on the edge of the bed, then turns to shut the sliding door and close the blinds against the world.

 

            Louise takes off her boots and socks, watches as Zeke tears off his shirt, kicks off his own footwear. He strides over then stops, considering her a moment. Trembling with need, she licks her lips and holds up her arms. He gets the hint and pulls her black, long-sleeved t-shirt over her head and stares at her chest with a thunderous expression on his face. She looks down and gets it; her lacy bralette doesn’t quite cover the bruises her assailants left on her breasts. Zeke pushes her thighs apart and kneels between them. He cups her breasts carefully, reverently, and plants light kisses on the blue-black marks, the tickle of his scruffy beard making her hiss with pleasure.

 

            He looks up at her with hard, blazing eyes. “Them bastards ain’t paid enough fer what they did to ya.” He nuzzles her breasts. “Do ya want me to finish ‘em off fer ya, honey?”

 

            Louise kisses him fiercely. Mouths and hands, gasps and moans. Louise is fire in his arms, a dark angel, pure lust in human form. Soon they’re both on the bed, Louise on her back writhing beneath him.

 

            “I mean it,” he says between kisses, working her jeans and underwear down her legs. “Just say the word an’ I’ll fuckin’ kill them sons of bitches.”

 

            Louise is convinced that she’ll literally become dehydrated if she gets any wetter. He cups his hand between her legs and she cries out, arching against him.

 

            “M—Mr. Fischoeder s-s-said—“

 

            “ _Fuck Fischoeder!_ ”

 

            She stares up at him; she’s never heard him speak of their boss with anything other than utmost respect. Zeke slips a finger inside her, begins to slowly, gently pump, his thumb stroking her clit.

 

            “Anythin’ ya want, sweetheart, I’ll do it. All fer you. Wouldn’t be the first time I took out a bastard that needed killin’.”

 

            Grinding against his hand, panting, one look in his hazel eyes and she knows he means it—for a brief moment, she considers it. “A-a-anything for me?”

 

            “ _Anythin’_.”

 

            She grips him by the hair and brings his mouth to hers, kissing him so ferociously they’re both left breathless. Two fingers in and Louise cries out, begins to push his head down the length of her body. “Then worship me,” she growls.

 

            Zeke dives in with a pleased groan. Louise is a goddess, and he is a humble supplicant at her sugary-vanilla scented temple. Between her legs lies the alter upon which he gladly sacrifices himself, again and again, heedless of time or space.

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Louise, snuggled in Zeke’s arms, her head pillowed on his chest, has a problem. Floating on a cloud of post-coital bliss, she’s torn between delighting in the aftershocks of the most intense orgasm she’s ever had, and cringing in embarrassment at what it took to get her there.   She’s not sure if she needs mental help, if she should thank God she found a man willing to indulge her sickness, or maybe a bit of column A, a bit of column B.

 

            Zeke nuzzles the top of her head, mutters something in her hair.

 

            “Mmm?”

 

            He plants a kiss on her crown. “I said, yer my treasure.”

 

            Smiling, Louise makes a scoffing sound, but nestles closer to him.

 

            “I mean it,” he says, idly stroking her arm. “You know there’s plenty I can’t tell ya, but…it’s important to me that ya know me fer real. The fact that you can know stuff, and ain’t runnin’ from it…maybe even like it,” he adds, the smirk obvious in his voice, “…well, it means a lot to me, babygirl.”

 

            The hairy, brawny body that cradles hers is a killing machine, and the heart within it beats for her. The callused hands that touch her so tenderly, that evoke such indescribable pleasure, have blood on them—metaphorically, and at one point, literally.  All that power, all that ruthless strength, is hers to command.  She squirms, aware that she’s going to be ready for round two sooner rather than later. Louise gathers her courage and lifts her head. He’s smiling at her, his eyes half-lidded with contentment. “You don’t think I need help?”

 

            Zeke pushes a lock of frizzy hair behind her ear. “You do, babygirl, and I’m the one who can give it to you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I the kind of dork who had to YouTube the proper way to kick in a door? Yes. Yes, I am.


	10. TEN

            The last two days of spring break are strangely anti-climatic for Louise, given what a rollercoaster the previous week proved to be. However, all things considered, she welcomes the relative calm. Saturday speeds by in a blur of working, napping, and finishing a paper about the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre for her medieval history class. Early Sunday morning, Louise, sore but smiling, climbs through her window. As soon as her feet hit the carpet she knows—she senses—something off; she’s not alone.

 

            She reaches into the pocket of her yoga pants, has fingers on her switchblade, when her nightstand lamp flicks on. Bob, wearing his sleep t-shirt and sweats, lounges on her bed.

 

            “Welcome home, Louise.”

 

            _Crap!_   She knew she was cutting it close, with Zeke dropping her off at almost 5:30—typically, Louise likes to be home by 5:00 at the latest, since her family doesn’t start moving until 6:00 or so, but this was their last night together before he goes back north to school. Confident her parents would sleep in a little bit, as the restaurant will be closed so they can have a day off as a family with Gene, who will arrive early in the afternoon, she figured she was safe.

 

            “Dad! You about gave me a heart attack.” She plops down in her desk chair and begins casually unlacing her running shoes, as if there’s nothing at all odd about this scene.

 

            “I came to check on you on my way back from the bathroom, and imagine my surprise when I found your bed empty. _You_ about gave _me_ a heart attack. Where the _hell_ have you been?”

 

            He’s not yelling—not yet—but Louise knows she’s going to have to defuse this one quickly, before her mother wakes up. She offers him her most winsome smile and gestures at her outfit. “I went for a walk, I was tired of sitting around inside.”

 

            Bob eyes her narrowly. True, she’s in her workout gear, she’s even scraped her hair back in a ponytail, as she always does when she’s exercising. Still, he doesn’t buy it.

 

            “With _that_ ankle?”

 

            “Yeah, it’s sore, but it’s better, and I was going stir-crazy.”

 

            “Why didn’t you use the front door?”

 

            “I didn’t want to wake you and Mom.”

 

            “Mmm-hum. And how long have you been out?”

 

            Louise assesses him quickly. He was wide-awake when she entered the room, even though he was reclined on her bed in the dark. She’s seen her father fall asleep sitting up in direct sunlight, so she’s sure he wasn’t there long.

 

            “About twenty minutes.”

 

            Bob grunts. He obviously doesn’t believe her, he’s casting about for another line of attack, and she knows if she gives him enough time, he’ll find one she can’t easily dodge. Sighing, she risks a potentially dangerous misdirection.

 

            “I—if you don’t mind, Dad, I’d like to get a couple more hours of sleep. I wanna, well…I wanna call Tina before Gene gets home. I mean, we can’t all be together as a family tonight, but I thought it’d be nice if we were, you know, all on speaking terms and stuff.”

 

            It’s the right thing to say. Bob’s eyes light up. “I’m glad to hear it, Louise. You still aren’t going to tell me what—?“

 

            “Hey Dad, what do you call a fake noodle?”

 

            “Okay, Louise—“

 

            “An _impasta_!” Louise giggles, imitating her mother's accent perfectly.

 

            Bob rubs the bridge of his nose. “Fine, you don’t need to tell me what went wrong between the two of you.”

 

            She picks at her shoelace. How much can she tell him? “I’ve just…sort of thought about our fight from her perspective, and… I still think she’s wrong, but I kind of escalated it. I didn’t make the situation any better, you know?”

 

            “That’s…that’s very mature of you.”

 

            “Yeah, I figure _someone_ has to be the adult here.”

 

            “Okay, Louise.” He stands up and makes for the door. “Do you want pancakes for breakfast?”

 

            “I don’t care,” she says around a jaw-cracking yawn.

 

            “Well, be up in four hours for a stack of maple-flavored I-don’t-care.” He stands up and makes for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “And Louise?”

 

            “Yeah, Dad?”

 

            “If I catch you sneaking through that window again, you’re moving back into your old room. I mean it.”

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Later, Louise, having showered and breakfasted, sits on her bed with her phone in her hand, psyching herself up to call her sister. _Have I had a decent night’s sleep at all this break?_   Probably not, but it doesn’t matter; she’ll sleep when she’s dead.

 

            Even after talking to her father, she might have chickened out of calling Tina had Zeke not sent her an encouraging text.

 

 **Zeke:** It ain’t easy, but it’s the right thing to do.

 

            Damn it, all she wants to do is take a nap, cuddling Zeke's love close to her heart, like the old Kuchi Kopi doll she used to snuggle as a child. She feels a gross, sappy smile spreading across her face. He didn’t tell her that he loves her, any more than she admitted the same to him, but he didn’t have to; she could see it, sense it, feel it in the touch of his hands, hear it in the rumble of his voice.

 

            Louise bites her lip. He’s right; it _is_ the right thing to do. She swapped eyes so she could empathize, and just the thought makes her want to punch herself in her own stupid face.

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

_“Babygirl, I hate that you an’ Tina ain’t talkin’ ‘cause of me,” he told her as she reluctantly stepped into her lacy panties._

_“Come on, Zeke, don’t ruin our last few minutes together talking about her.” She flashed a smile at him over her shoulder, hoping to distract him with a slight jutting of her ass. _

_Zeke, sitting on the bed, was already dressed except for his footwear, and watched her with gleaming eyes as he pulled on his boots. “I know, but…darlin’, if ya let arguments fester too long, they become habits, an’ eventually nobody remembers what the argument was about in the first place.”_

_“Have you seen my bra?”_

_Grinning, he held up the satin and lace garment by the straps._

_“Wanna help me put it on?”_

_Zeke sucked in a breath. “Baby, we both know what’ll happen if I do. An’ it ain’t fair of ya, tryin’ to distract me like that.”_

_Louise didn’t break eye contact as she strode over, took the bra from his fingers, and slowly, sensuously continued dressing. “Aren’t I a good distraction?”_

_His eyes burned as they followed the turn of her fingers, the curve of her hips, the rise of her breasts as she dressed, and she knew he was committing the sight to memory. “The best fuckin’ distraction ever,” he agreed. “But I mean it, ya gotta put this thing to rest between the two of ya. I saw what happened with momma and Aunt Gemma. They got in an argument twenty years ago about God-knows-what, and they barely talked ‘til R. B. needed a home. I’d hate fer the same thing to happen to you an’ T-Bird.”_

_The truth was, she’d thought a lot about Tina over the past few days, remembering how just a year ago, it was her sister who was nearly attacked, and how she, Louise, had stepped in to her rescue. Thanks to her own assault, Louise understood now how embarrassment and gratitude must have twisted in Tina’s heart, made her extra-determined to repay Louise’s protectiveness. The Belcher kids always had each other’s backs, and Tina was sometimes possessed of a big-sister compulsion that frightening to behold._

_“But she’s wrong! She doesn’t know anything about you and me!”_

_“Well, yeah, she don’t understand but…come on, Louise, if you two swapped places, what would you think?”_

_Louise popped her head out of her t-shirt. She thought for a moment as she arranged her hair. “Honestly? If I were the older sister, and knew only what Tina knows?  You would’ve been a bloody mess on the wall. And Dad would’ve definitely found out.”_

_He nodded and tossed her leggings at her. “See? And I reckon in a way, she protected us—don’t know how much longer I could work with ya an’…well, yer daddy would’ve figured it out.”_

_He was right, and she knew it. Louise pulled up her leggings, settled the wide waistband into place. “Fine,” she sighed. “I’ll try. And I guess I should apologize to Gene when he gets home, too.”_

_“Why? What’d ya do to Gene?”_

_She flipped him the bird. “Thanks for the support, asswipe.”_

_“You know what I mean.”_

_Louise sighed, unwilling to tell him how she’d spaced out during their last phone call. “Well, I put him in a bad position. I mean, sure, I asked for his support, but you know Gene; there’s no way he wouldn’t side with me. He’s too much of a pushover.”_

_Zeke smiled as he watched her tie her shoes. Damn, his girl’s growing up to be a fine woman!  He didn’t know what he did to deserve a gal like that, but he was determined to prove himself worthy of her._

 

*                        *                        *                        *                        *

 

            Sitting on her bed, Louise takes a breath: _Do it and get it over with_. She opens her contacts, and taps Tina’s picture.

 

            The phone rings three times. _Shit!_ Louise just assumed that she’d be able to talk to her sister; it never occurred to her that she might have to leave a message. What’s she going to say? Guilt nibbles at the corner of her mind; Tina accused her of being selfish, among other things, and Louise’s assumption that Tina would just _be_ there, ready to receive an apology the second Louise decided to offer it, would confirm that Tina was right.

 

            “Hello, Louise.” Tina’s voice is no more flat and monotone than usual, but knows her sister well enough to hear the cool frost in her words.

 

            “Um, yeah. Hi. Do you…do you have a couple of minutes?”

 

            A tiny fraction of a pause. “I have to leave for work in ten but…give me a sec, I’m going to my room.”

 

            Louise begins pacing, stretching, listening as her sister makes her way to her room and shuts the door.  “Okay," Tina grunts.  "Is everything alright over there?”

 

            “Sure, sure, it’s all good, I…” Unnerved by her panic that she’d have to leave a message, Louise’s carefully planned speech flies out of her head. “I wanted to—I want to apologize. For my part of our fight. I’m still with him, and I won’t apologize for _that_ , but I—I know that it looks awful, and you just wanted to look out for me. I shouldn’t have called you a bitch, or jealous, or froze you out.”

 

            A long pause. “I’m…I’m s-sorry,” she adds lamely.

 

            “Wow. I…wow.” Tina’s voice, still flat, at least has thawed a bit. “Thank you, I…you know I still think he’s a predator, yes?”

 

            Louise clenches her jaw, but keeps her tone neutral. “I know you still think that.”

 

            “And I still think you’re pulling a crappy trick on our parents.”

 

            Louise takes a calming breath. “I know you still think that.”

 

            “But,” Tina adds softly, “I can see the appeal. Star-crossed lovers and all. It’s kind of romantic.”

 

            _Romantic? Sick!_ But even as Louise makes a face at the phone, the memory of Zeke lifting her up in his arms, staring lovingly into her eyes as he carried her to bed, floods her heart with light.

 

            “I know how it looks and all but—come on, do you really think I'd let some guy take advantage of me? He’s _good_ to me, Tina. We…we _get_ each other.”

 

            Her older sister grunts again, then, after a pause, sighs. “I’m sorry for my part too. I should have taken a moment to calm down, been more tactful. And maybe—“ Tina clears her throat. “Well, you were right about some things.”

 

            Louise almost drops her phone in astonishment.

 

            “It’s…not always easy, you know. I mean, I’m proud of who I am but you’re—you’ve always been the popular, smart, pretty one and—“

 

            “Tina, I—“

 

            “Let me—let me finish,” Tina cuts over her. “It’s n-not easy for me to talk like this.” Tina takes a steadying breath. “I’m usually alright with it, I mean, I have my own advantages, but I just…just wasn’t in a good headspace. I just broke with Sean and… and Zeke…and fucking Jimmy Junior, then Logan…and….”

 

            “What does _Dingleberry_ have to do with this?” Goddamn it, what _is_ it about Logan that always causes chaos in her life? Hell, he’s part of the reason she’s having this conversation; if nothing else, Louise is determined to not be like Logan, older than dirt and still incapable of saying that she’s sorry.

 

            “Oh. Yeah. You didn’t see the way he looked at you at the party.”

 

            Louise blinks, her brain frozen, locked, then roars into overdrive as she realizes what Tina means. “Oh. My. God. _SICK_!”

 

            “Well, I think I was boring him with zombies, so—“

 

            “I need a shower,” Louise wails, flapping her free hand. “Blech. _Blech!_ ”

 

            “Don’t have a crap attack,” Tina says with a slight laugh. “Your back was towards him.  He looked horrified when you turned around and he realized who you are.”

 

            “As well he should,” Louise mutters darkly.

 

            “Look, I really do have to go to work, but I’m glad you called.”

 

            “We’re…good then?”

 

            “We will be,” Tina says, and Louise’s stomach unclenches. “I’ll call you tomorrow evening, okay? I want to tell you about grad schools.”

 

            “Oh yeah, you were looking at someplace in Iowa, right?”

 

            She can hear her sister gathering her purse and keys. “Um-hum, but I’ve been talking to one of my professors, and I might have an opportunity farther from home. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Love you, Louise.”

 

            “Love you too, T.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi Everyone,
> 
> First, thank you so much for reading, commenting, bookmarking, and so on. As always, I’m surprised and thrilled that so many people seem to like my writing, particularly as it features an undeniably problematic ship without a strong fanbase.
> 
> As per usual, lots of other pop culture notes here, most notably “Archer” and “South Park.” Of course, I do not own any of the intellectual properties referenced, and don’t profit from them in any way except personal amusement. 
> 
> I’m already working on a shorter story that takes place about three weeks after this one. The first chapter should be up within a month.
> 
> Yours,  
> DangerFloof


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